


My Friend, Mr Noctgar

by Beauvoyr



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Also Ravus is 30 too just to standardise the age, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Everyone's Old in This, F/M, Fluff, Homeless (?) Noctis, Humor, Older Noctis, Older chocobros, Rating will change, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Short Reader, Size Difference, Size Kink, everyone lives nobody dies, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-05 17:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13392276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beauvoyr/pseuds/Beauvoyr
Summary: Transferring from Gralea to Insomnia’s already hard enough for an Omega like you. Luckily your new friend Mr Noctgar, a homeless Alpha who’s always skulking around Sagefire, is there to brighten your dreary days ahead. And he’s always there to teach you the best spots in Insomnia, among other things.EPISODE III:Apparently, Ravus isn’t finished with his train of thought. “I find that working when one is demotivated is akin to pushing a dead mule. Ineffective and inefficient.” And, for the slightest moment, the edges of his lips curl. “Like you.”





	1. EPISODE I: dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> Astrals, could the day get any worse? 

Niflheim Technologies (NT) relocated their Gralea branch _and_ on top of it all, rebranded the whole place into Zegnautus Keep as HQ for their IT wizards to play in. Relocating also means shuffling people around like a deck of cards; those fortunate are thrown off into opposite ends of Eos, some landing in the Altissia branch right in the heart of Accordo (lucky bastards who get to sample the freshest seafoods, really), while the rest of the unlucky ones (namely you) are chucked off to a foreign land named Insomnia in Lucis, some two-day flight away from Catarnica Airport. The name Insomnia is telling enough that this new reshuffling and this new city isn’t going to let you sleep at night; hence, Insomnia. Some unspoken prophecy the Astrals forgot to mention says you’re not going to look forward to this fresh arrangement, especially with this new boss named Ardyn Izunia. 

Speaking of your new boss, here comes the lucky man. 

A jumbled head of russet locks rounded the corner, broad steps causing his flamboyant trench coat to sashay along with him. You don’t really know if it’s acceptable within corporate outlines to wear _that_ trench coat and _that_ scarf and _that_ fedora in office, but then again, this is your boss—so naturally he gets to make the rules, right? Nobody’s going to question why on Eos is he rocking some boho ensemble when he’s the branch manager, so you best keep your tongue to yourself unless you want to tread on some unsuspectingly fragile Alpha ego. 

“Ah, there you are,” Sir Izunia says, voice theatrical, arms gestured wide. It’s as if he hasn’t seen you standing here, right in front of his golden plaque door like an idiot from ten meters away while your feet are hurting in these stupid heels and your neck is _itching_ under this new collar. “We’ve been expecting new help, seeing that we’re severely undermanned as usual. You know things are in the media department, always overworked to our bones. Don’t you agree?”

Molten gold eyes are bright when he scents you from head to toe, and you hope whatever it is that he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it in you. Alphas are really annoying when they’re openly scenting people like this—like he’s running his hands all over your body to search for defects, except that it’s acceptable and primed in all Alphas, Betas, and Omegas to scent each other to scope things out with their noses. You know better than to boldly sniff him out in front of him, though you certainly haven’t missed the lingering notes of cinnamon with deep notes of white musk accosting you in multiple directions. His scent is certainly overpowering and heady, as expected of an Alpha, ready to suppress other challenging Alphas and subdue Omegas under its tantalizing fragrance.

Remembering your manners, you dip at the waist in a respectable bow and crane your head to meet him in the eye once more. Darn Alphas are too tall, it sucks to be an Omega. You hope you don’t have to wear a neck brace by the time you’re nearing 60. “Good morning, Sir Izunia. I’m here to report for my first day under you.”

His smile is crooked with too many teeth, and you instantly dislike how handsy he gets when he throws the door to his office open, guiding you in by your shoulder. In here, the scent thickens as all his belongings are gathered in this space, from the many scarves coiled over his hat rack to the fashionable display of some of his tailored jackets hanging on hooks. It’s almost like his private room in here with multiple pots of cacti queued on his glass-lined mahogany desk, a picture frame by his iMac, and a swivel chair straight out of a home décor booklet. This is an Ikea-worthy exhibit if you had to say anything vaguely nice about his room. Sir Izunia motions for you to sit on one of the many chairs opposite him, similarly dropping into his own seat as he fixes his eyes on you, grinning roguishly. 

“Under me?” he echoes, eyebrows bouncing about, and you silence the urge to facepalm at the lewd retelling of his words. Your lack of response tells him nothing, so he throws his head back with a hearty laugh fitting for an old man tickled pink. “Forgive me, my dear, I was merely jesting. A good joke or two to loosen up your awfully tense facial expression, hmm?”

You’re aware you’re emotionally constipated from the start, but you nod all the same and try on a smile, however insincere it might seem. “Yes, Sir Izunia.”

Sir Izunia’s hand is squared on his chin, stroking his day-old stubble with surprising thoughtfulness behind his meaningless action. The curiosity is still lighting up his eyes, and you’re tempted to shut down whatever generator that’s powering it. “Just Ardyn is fine.”

Emotionally constipated at your best, you nod, still smiling. “Yes, Sir _Izunia._ ”

* * *

Being an Omega is hard. 

The dynamics of the universe have always dictated that Alphas are the superior species, Betas are _meh_ , while the Omegas are a speck of dust in the air—only existing either to be sexualised or to be bred for babies. Alphas are cool. Alphas are hot. Alphas are the epitome of those CEOs in Galahdan soap operas sweeping Omegas off their feet with their hulking mass and teeming with pheromones to seduce an unsuspecting Omega into Heat. Legends of the old, or that crumpled issue of Cosmogony #771, said that Astrals sculpted Alphas after their ~~egoistic~~ selves, bestowing upon the humankind with a sliver of what it feels like to have Gods walking amongst the common. They command and they conquer, they rule and they dictate. They are absolute.

_Not._

Alphas are just ordinary human beings too, just that their physical characteristics manifest in clichés of excessive height, domineering behaviour, and overwhelming strength. That’s where the trope Tall, Dark and Handsome came from. All Alphas regardless of their gender will exhibit either one or all of these traits, and all Alphas are able to mark their Omega mates with their teeth to the neck to claim them once and for all. Biting a Beta yields no bruising teeth mark, unfortunately, or so you learnt from your married colleagues back in Gralea. You don’t really get what’s everyone’s fascination with toting grotesque teeth marks on their necks like it’s the latest fashion fad, but _hey_ , not that’s any of your business to begin with.

In this unfair world where the Astrals made the humans their toys, you are an unfortunate Omega. 

The weakest chain in the link, the prey in the animal food chain. Smallest, softest, and squishiest. Cursed with monthly Heats as if being puny and pathetic isn’t horrible enough. Mated Alphas back in Gralea offhandedly mentioned during watercooler chats that Omegas smell stereotypically sweet—something you had to agree with because of that one time where you thought someone brought in vanilla tarts, except it was an Omegan intern stumbling into the meeting room with a laptop. Needless to say, a roomful of Omegas would equate to a bakery of handcrafted goodness, _or_ a florist with a shipload of flowers. And apparently because all Omegas smell so good— _that_ and Alphas have a long-established history of cripplingly low self-control, Eos’ continents collectively passed an act for all unmated Omegas to wear collars to prevent unsolicited markings from any Alpha. Strictly no bites, collars all the way. In your opinion though, not that any of the kingdoms and empires cared, stricter laws should be executed on Alphas caught marking unwilling Omegas. _Neutering_ , for example, is a good start.

Okay you’re sidetracking as always, a bad habit just so you don’t have to deal with the depressing reality that life is crap and your brand new workplace is an unfamiliar setting full of unsprung traps, so you might as well stop zoning out right about now.

Your current focus? Your branch boss.

Ardyn Izunia, is a weird, creepy, yet highly entertaining Alpha. He’s like that uncle who shows up to family gatherings already tipsy, inhaling everything in the wine cabinet until he passes out on the couch—and nobody wants to be that unlucky guy to wake him up. Talking in riddles, always knowing the answer to a trivia on the comedy channel, yet still lame enough to squint at his smartphone as he tries to figure out if emojis and memes are the same thing—for the sake of having a relatable topic of conversation readied for youths, if anything. He rides a well-loved Vixen 705 convertible in muted magenta, complete with a stripe racing down the middle, and likes his gourmet coffee seasoned with copious creamers and milk. An odd fellow indeed, that’s Sir Izunia.

And then there’s your superior he assigned to you, someone by the name Ravus Nox Fleuret. The older brother of the iconic Nox Fleuret duo, with Lunafreya rocking the red carpets in her too-pretty dress and flaunting her erotic S-line curve on haute couture runways each season. If Ardyn is the weird uncle in the family, Ravus certainly channels the balding old neighbour next door who’d prop up his shotgun the moment someone steps on his lawn—except, Ravus _isn’t_ balding and he’s trained in the art of fencing, or so what the online fansites wrote. You digressed, really: Point is, he’s a terrifying textbook Alpha, all broad chest and long legs accented by designer pants. 

“ _This_ ,” Sir Izunia has both his hands bearing down on your shoulders like he’s trying to compress you into a tin can, “is our new slave. Starting from today onwards, you’ll be showing her the ropes as she works,” he coughs on purpose, his smirk turning sleazy, “ _under_ you. Or so she said earlier this morning,” he’s quick to add when Ravus, a newfound fellow emotionally constipated human, fails to smile. “So yes, I leave her in your capable hands, Ravus. Do be sure to show our one and only Omega some kindness; we wouldn’t want to end up scaring her in our Alpha-dominated environment, do we?”

Ravus says nothing, merely looking at Sir Izunia as if the man’s the biggest cockroach flying into the room. You’re not sure if it’s just you, but seconds later, Ravus’ dichromatic eyes assess you the same way Sir Izunia did, discreetly scenting you from his comfortable station behind his desk. Sir Izunia, on the other hand, seems more than amused with the turn of events, clapping his hands to remind everyone present that he’s still in the room in case anyone forgot.

“I’ll be on my way then,” he cheers, fedora tipped Ravus’ way as his feet carries him to the door. “Ta-ta, and good luck on your first day.”

Who actually bothers to put on a fedora just for the sake of riding the lift three floors down to bring you to your superior anyway? Sir Izunia, that’s who. You wrestle the urge to sigh and remember to bow as he exits. “Thank you, Sir Izunia, I’ll do my best.”

Once the door is closed and you’re trapped with Eos’ reigning #3 Hottest Bachelor—according to Omega Weekly, _not_ that you subscribed to it or anything—only then you are able to make yourself comfortable on a chair across him. Ravus is terrifyingly tall, a staple Alpha trait, though he lacks the bulk Sir Izunia carried. Severe, unsmiling, tight-lipped, bespoke suit and Windsor knot for his tie. What you do find fascinating is his eyes: Two curious halves of marbles in azure and amethyst, wispy tendrils of his fine hair shadowing his right. It’s strange how such imperfection perfected him as though heterochromia belongs to him and only him, and none other may wear it with the same perfection as he did. 

“Are you done staring?” Ravus cocks a brow. 

Honesty is the best policy, so you nod. “Yes sir.”

If possible, his cocked eyebrow seemed to climb higher—but that’s totally impossible, unless this is some girly manga with sharp-chinned hotties and hair for days. Undaunted by your bluntness, Ravus only takes it as a sign to continue. “If Ardyn failed to inform you, we’re understaffed here, so you’ll have to work harder than your time in Gralea.” 

_‘Not that it’s anything new because an electrician can be a plumber at the very next day if the boss says so,’_ you reckon, but the moment Ravus draws up a sheet and hands it over, your eyebrows are already well-stationed in the middle of your forehead. You’re halfway through digesting that whole chunk with _blah blah overseeing C3_ when the queasiness in your throat gives way for a high-pitched question. “What’s this?”

Ravus, bless his emotional constipation, lays out what’s in store for you in the next couple of months. All with a straight face, no-nonsense speech. “C3 is Crown City Campus, Lucis’ national university. Its patron is none other than King Regis Lucis Caelum, who is _coincidentally_ ,” his lips tip sideways, “the head of the Board of Directors of Caelum Conglomerate. At the moment, Niflheim Technologies has set up The Aldercapt Foundation for Youths—TAFFY, in short, which sponsors bright and promising students of C3. In conjunction with TAFFY, Caelum Industries under Caelum Conglomerate are—“

 _Yeah,_ there’s gonna be a shit ton of work for you, that’s the gist of it. 

And _no_ , there is _no_ pay raise.

* * *

Insomnia dazzled you from the moment flight ISM8848 had its touchdown days before. Niflheim is steel grey and swollen clouds while Insomnia is all clear glass and blue skies. Blessed by the Astrals, or so they said. Dragging bag after bag from the airport to your pre-booked cab, all nosed up against a window fogged from your breath, the withering driver enthusiastically shared traveller tips for fellow Niffs on a pilgrimage to Insomnia, every breath spent on detailing the best spots to enjoy Galahdan cuisine, the cheapest pre-loved items up for grabs on Crystal Promenade— _and_ , with a customary slanting of his eyes, the red zones where no Omega should linger for a moment too long. 

You get that, really. No place is safe enough for an Omega, not even Insomnia is sterile from bad records of Alpha attacks despite boasting the lowest crime records in years ever since the latest instalment of their royal council member. Cross-country politics aren’t really your thing but you had to brush up on the Lucian scene since they threw you all the way here— _alone_. Salty? Yes, you’re still salty they rejected Aranea’s transfer appeal just because they wanted the Alpha in Tenebrae, _not_ Insomnia. 

_Whatever,_ you’re here to work, not to wax soliloquy on your solitude. Gotta get the money rolling in, one way or another. Life is tough and so are you.

Your desk-mate is already giving you an eyeful at your dead-eyed stare into your iMac’s soul. Beta he may be, but his potpourri of perfume is trying its damned best to cover up that fact. _‘Poor guy is probably in denial that he’s not an Alpha,’_ you grouse inwardly as you eye the waxed swoop of blond mop, cherub cheeks, lips perpetually in a pout. 

“You must be new here,” he utters silky smooth with double-edged concern. Palm on cheek, elbow on desk, ankles crossed, revealing a wedge of woollen socks between grey slacks and brown brogues. Your nose crinkles at the colour combo but _okay_ , to each their own. “Tummelt, Loqi Tummelt. Corporate Communications Executive,” he adds after assessing you from head to toe like you’re a smudge on that Chopard slinked around his wrist. “Pleasure to meet you.”

While 90% of you wanted to stew him for tonight’s dinner, another 10% of you remembered Aranea’s wise words: _Kill him with kindness._ You offer your hand, introducing your name and adding, as an afterthought, “Senior Corporate Communications Executive.” 

It’s a .5 second record in your books for wiping a smug smirk off someone’s face _that_ quick. Shit just got real. Loqi angles his face away from you and narrows dubious eyes at your wan-faced introduction. “What’s a _senior_ doing out here? Your private office not cushy enough for you?”

Signing into your Moogle Drive and synchronising all your documents in the background window, you offer him a shake of your head and highlight your statement with a smile. “I kind of like the setting here,” you shrug towards the wall-hugging windows printing squares of sunlight on beige oak floor. Smattering of greens are here and there in opaque pots, evenly spaced between white tables and silver iMacs. Open office in minimalistic modernity, just the way you like it. “Less stuffy, more accessible. Plus, Ravus said we had space so.” You do a little shrug, hands aside. “He’s cool with it, didn’t say anything to me.”

For some reasons, Loqi bristles. “That should be Prince Ravus to you.”

Oh yeah, did you forget to mention that said iconic Nox Fleuret duo is both Prince and Princess of Tenebrae? You did, didn’t you? Your shoulders roll with another shrug as eyes scan the contents of your work-issued mail inbox. “He’s chill with just Ravus though. That or sir, whatever works.” More farewell emails from the leftovers back in Gralea and, much to your thinly disguised surprise, an email is already parked at the furthermost top from a certain Prince of Tenebrae. _Huh_. “’scuse me, give me a sec. He just shot me an email.”

From the corners of your eyes you see disgruntled Loqi rolling his eyes and muttering Gralean expletives under his breath, turning to his work and punching in his keys harder than you thought. You don’t care if he wants to throw tantrum like a toddler. You can’t really care about it when Ravus’ email reads:

From: ravus@nt.is

Subject: Media Release for CSR

To: (y/n)@nt.nf

Attached:  756-CSR.pdf (5 MB) 

Finish the media release by 9, attached are the particulars.

  
The clock reads 8:49, and you scream internally as your fingers work overdrive at 137 wpm.

* * *

_“—Tummelt’s a bastard, never liked him. His brain’s lodged somewhere in his balls.”_

Lunch. Praises be to the Astrals for the late Martin Eldigan who invented lunch breaks, for you’re not sure you could survive another hour in the office without shoving three different meals into your gluttonous mouth _and_ whining to Aranea about your disastrous first day _and_ your oddball of bosses. Speaking of balls—

“He needs to be neutered, I swear,” you grunt, kitten heels clicking on waxed marbling as you carry yourself across the lobby in quick strides. Bustling Techies—Niflheim Technology’s (unfortunate) staffs—are engrossed in their own lunchtime activities, scanning nametags over automated barriers without sparing a glance at the metal bars. Insomnia’s sun is all-generous with its lights, falling bright through high windows many feet away from your tiny Omegan stature, melding perfectly with Niflheim’s white. “What, just because he’s a beta, he thinks he gets to disrespect _me?_ Excuse _me?_ I bet my CV will have him cramming his in the incinerator as soon as he sees it.”

 _“House Tummelt’s full of dicks like him. Only difference is that they’re Alphas while he’s practically disgraced the entire Tummelt line by being a beta, so House Tummelt vetoed his stay in Gralea and that’s how he got there,”_ Aranea laughs savagely from the other end. A chair squeaks and you hear her chugging down a drink before she murmurs, _“Don’t let it discourage you. Just keep being you and keep kicking ass. He’s just trying to compensate for his small dick syndrome.”_

You make a noncommittal sound just so you’d swallow down five more complaints about that Tummelt guy. “Guess so, Aranea,” you grudgingly acquiesced, striding through automated doors to exit the oppressive compound that is NT. “Just got out for lunch so I’mma grab something real quick. Starving like hell right now.”

 _“Go refill your energy, babe,”_ she coos, just as you hear her luscious lips smacking by way of a kiss to you. _“Talk to you real soon, okay? Text me if anything.”_

You lament the cold hard truth that Aranea is miles and miles away from Insomnia, somewhere in the jungles of Tenebrae, and you’ll never savour the feel of her red sateen-finish lips imprinting your cheek again. Guess that makeup remover sitting inside your handbag needs to be emptied out since it outlived its usefulness. “ ‘kay, miss you.”

Her warm chuckle accompanies a breathy, _“Miss you too,”_ and then it’s all silence once more. 

Squeezing your phone into your pocket, you sigh. 

Aranea Highwind’s a darling of an Alpha the Astrals sent just so she’d be your guardian angel in leather. Leggy creature sheathed in the tightest pair of pants she could squeeze in, she’s always fending your Omegan rights with a snap of her teeth and a jab of her middle finger. Starting as an intern was already hard enough with everyone thinking they could push around an Omega just _because_ , but Aranea takes no shit and gives no shit. You need monthly breaks because of bad Heats? Yeah, she’s gonna give you a week off. Someone shits all over your credentials just because you’re Omega? Yeah, she’ll chokeslam them to the wall. Holding the most authority as the previous Senior Corporate Communications Executive back in Gralea, she’s a champion for those unable to fend for themselves—Omegas, Betas, Alphas alike, no discrimination in between. Call her and she’ll be there with a roar of her bike and a clack of her stilettos. If you ever needed a solid slap on the face to wake up and face the reality, you know you can count on her to give you two more freebies to your face to make sure you’ve got yourself together.

Still, now that they gave her a raise and tied it with her transfer to Tenebrae, you’ve lost your bosom buddy to the wildlife lurking where she is. Yeah, you’re still salty about it, but there’s nothing you can do about the situation. She deserves so much more for what she’s done for you, and her pay raise is something long overdue. 

The world outside jumps at you through blaring honks and beeping Ubers, stalling your thoughts. _Right,_ this isn’t sullen Gralea and its slow-paced lifestyle of the elderly smoking cigars by the sidewalks. This is fast-tracked Insomnia where the high life hums with lackadaisical chatter, sneakerheads propping up their new kicks on streetside railing, hipster cafés teeming with trendy teens—a never-ending vortex of energy and life vibrating in the air. Fellow Techies out for lunch are scattered here and there in nearby restaurant patios, recognisable from a distance with their white lanyards. Only two days inducted into this new city, the best lunch spots are still hidden to your newbie eyes, so what’s better than to scout around to see what you could find out? 

Feet underway with a new mission, you mesh into the crowd. 

Shoulder-to-elbow with Alpha Insomnians, layers of unique scents hang about, a stark contrast from Gralea’s Beta-laden blends. Niflheim’s main composition follows the standard Betas, Alphas, and sprinkled with a dash of Omegas at the end. Insomnia, on the other hand, isn’t quite like it. You could easily pick out the brutish Alphas sticking out from the crowd with their solid builds, sending out scents that remind you of damp woodlands with earthen undertones. On their phones, cold and controlled conversations reflected on glassy panels. They’re dazzling to look at, always the subject of envy and admiration from both Betas and Omegas—who wouldn’t want to be them anyway? Given the chance to restart, you’re pretty sure many would ask Shiva to let them be reincarnated as an Alpha in their next life. 

As you march alongside the lot, your nape prickles. And not just any prickling, _that_ sort of prickling.

_Eyes._

Eyes are on you—not long enough to creep you out, but just enough to tell you that you’ve caught someone’s attention. Or, _well_ , if you’re trying to be full of yourself— _everyone’s_ attention. Your collar’s hidden out of sight, just a black rim barely peeking underneath your high shirt collar, but it’s enough to have you tugging your overall attire self-consciously. It’s your scent, you _know_. That sickeningly coy Omega scent advertising you with a big billboard flashing HEY CHECK IT OUT I’M AN OMEGA LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME **LOOK A** —

The moment an Alpha by the curb zones in on you with unmasked interest unravelling on his face, you swiftly duck out of the mob to turn around the corner. _‘Okay time out, time out.’_

If you knew your scent is going to cause you _this_ much of grief, you would’ve emptied half of your perfume bottle in a desperate cover before you headed outside. Gralea had its fair share of creepertastic Alphas and sleazy Betas but they were never _this_ forward with their interest. Sucking in some deep breaths, you count to ten. You’re going to need more than two days to acclimatize yourself with how things work in Insomnia. Slinking backwards and hoping no Techie caught your temporary meltdown, you seek shelter under the shadows of steelworks underway overhead. You drop your rump onto a gritty ledge to iron out your nerves and catch some deep breaths or two. Deep breaths, one, two, one, two. Stress is bad, or like what Aranea used to say, stress is bad for the skin and even worse for your weak Omega ass. It fluctuates your hormones, hastens or spaces your Heats into incomprehensible gaps, triggers a sharp change in scent, and generally messes everything up if the world’s not trying to kill you by now. Really, it’s a miracle how Omegas managed to survive this far considering how weak your species seems to be. 

Three more lungfuls of air and another speedy kindergarten count to ten gradually deceives your tension into a mellow trance. It’s still not enough to convince you that Insomnia’s going to work itself out, but it's more than enough to convince you not to pack your bags and scram back to Niflheim where mom and dad are waiting with their homemade pork-broth noodles. Six, they sure know how to slow-boil the juicy meat in all sorts of spices to give it more _oomph_ to the flavour. It makes everything twice as tender and the moment it falls apart on your tongue, it undoes you completely.

And speaking of food, by the Gods you’re _hungry._

Shaking yourself out of your hunger-fuelled stupor, you get to your wobbly feet to pinpoint your location in intricate Insomnia. The road’s quiet enough to deviate from the main street crowd, roughly a block and a half from NT’s skyscraper of silver and white. Scanning the landscape offers nothing noteworthy on the scene; a queue of cars parked by the roadside, gated apartments, and stray cats lounging on brick walls with their tummies bared. On the tippy toes of your polished pumps, you catch a glimpse of something—or rather, your nose picked it up first, then your tummy alerted you. 

Puffy trees line the sidewalks leading up to a russet-stoned bakery, all wooden louvers and latticed windows with a chalk signboard swinging in the breeze. _Welcome to Sagefire_ , it reads. Apparently, crossbreeding contemporary and vintage resulted in the birth this bakery, not that you’re complaining. It’s a romantic setting away from the hustle and bustle of the boisterous Insomnians, a little tranquillity you’re thankful for. _That_ and food, _mmmm_ , you could already smell the array of custard-filled buns and milk breads. 

Swinging the door open leads to a brass doorbell jingling overhead, revealing rows and rows of breads supported by wooden slats. The cashier whips around at the announcement of your entry with a beam readied on his face, reciting, “Welcome to Sagefire!” in a peppy tune that reminds you of advertisement jingles. It’s an addictive sound—kind of cute too, if you must confess. With a cuckoo clock hanging on a wooden post and dainty memorabilia scattered on decorative tables, you know a winner when you see one. Modern bakeries will always lose when compared to a vintage setting like this.

Selecting your choice of weapon, a pair of copper tongs hooked on the wall, and your choice of shield, a matching copper tray, you begin your moseying into this brand new world.

* * *

Sticky mouth stuffed with fluffy chiffon cake? _Check._

Hoisting two paper bags pregnant with bread, bread, and more bread? _Check_. 

Damn this is some good cake and everything’s cheap as hell? _Check, check,_ and _check._

Ebony might be your first favourite thing in Insomnia after all, as you take a swig out of the canned coffee. Bless that storekeeper for recommending a cold can, just to freshen your tastebuds after tucking into these tidbits. And that bakery’s the next best thing that happened within these two days. Their varying selection has your greedy paws and greedier mouth watering for more because if they could make simple chiffon cake taste this good, their egg tarts are guaranteed to send you straight to heaven. They do takeouts with cute polka-dotted packaging for their rice balls and garulessandwich, and while belated regret is already seeping in your bones for not snagging a packet or two, you’re consoling your grief with the silent reassurance that tomorrow’s another day for you to explore Sagefire again. 

Tottering down the sidewalk with two bulking bags, canned coffee in one hand and a savagely quartered chiffon cake in the other, you know _this_ is life. 

(In all actually, that’s just you trying to comfort yourself at the prospect of returning to your office and refreshing your inbox to see what else Ravus has in store for you.)

(Not to mention the grim fact that the filing room exists for a reason and you should probably poke your nose in a file or two to see what's the current status of NT’s Insomnia branch. Maybe if you prayed hard enough, the Astrals will take mercy on you.)

You take another sip of Ebony, already feeling the doom and gloom of the day settling in.

(Yeah, who are you kidding anyway. The moment life goes fine and dandy, it’ll definitely fuck you up.)

And then you come to an abrupt halt.

Halfway down the street just meters away from Sagefire, sitting _right_ where you were, is a man. While that seat certainly isn’t sprayed with your initials nor did you pay extra taxes to make that corner yours, that irrational part of your brain argued for justice and demanded retribution. In _blood_. Seconds later, your eyes instantly sized up how baggy, ragged denim does injustice to the length of his legs, taking in the sad droop to his limp locks and the scruff that needs to be manicured. Stuffed right in a faded shirt and crumbling duffle coat, wearing the distant pain of someone whose future remains out of reach, you don’t need to look any further to know what he is: A homeless man. Not just any man, an _Alpha._

You take another _long_ sip. Just to re-evaluate your life a little. 

For all your constant bemoaning on how life sucks and things never quite turned your way, seeing things like this is a guilty punch to your face to remind you to be thankful for everything you have in life. Sure, work sucks and crabbier bosses suck even worse, but there’s never been a day that ends with your stomach grumbling and your head full of thoughts of where to stay for the night. Weary bones can be mended but a broken soul cannot. Back where you were, Niflheim seldom had homeless people roaming its sidewalk. A quick darting of your eyes tells you that Insomnia’s got its humane side compared to Gralea and its citywide installations of anti-homeless architecture. Politicians obese with sins argued they’d keep the streets safer at night with these defensive architecture that are undeserving of the Gralean media’s hostile architecture moniker, but if anyone asked you, you’d agree they’re completely senseless—not to mention, barbaric in nature as well.

Watching the doleful Alpha all lost and lonely from afar sticks a knife in your heart if it isn’t already wedged deep enough. Nobody ever asked to be homeless. Sometimes they _tried_ , and it’s good enough in your books that they _tried_ to be part of the society that’s long cast them out. It’s just that, _well_ , others saw them as vermin scavenging trash cans and recycle bins for something to trade for a Gil, even if they’re tin cans and Styrofoam boards. Doubling as janitors during the day and security guards at night, peddling their aluminium tins with layered cardboards in raffia strings. Numb or _forced_ to be numb at the dirty looks passersby tossed, trying for that _one_ chance to make everything right again. The homeless Alpha’s forlorn gaze kind of makes you feel bad for being prejudiced about Alphas and all the glory they’re hogging—not _all_ Alphas are like that, and now you’re learning about it the hard way.

 _Well._ No use fretting it now. 

Powered by a sense of guilt and wanting to be _that_ small change in his life, you cast a calculative glance at your bread bags. Two bags of food are just too much for someone like you. It was definitely your satanic gluttony guiding your treacherous hands to grab everything off the shelf when they’re ridiculously priced at 130 Credits each. 

_‘But not today Satan,’_ you decide, giving yourself a mental pat on your back. _‘One of these is definitely going to be for that guy.’_

What a marvellous plan! Yes, yes, you’re such a genius for thinking it up.

Next question: _How_ exactly? 

You can’t walk up to the brooding Alpha and dump off the bag like he’s some charity case asking for donations. That’s just plain rude and mom would sooner smack your back with her spatula than to admit you were her child. While the Alpha didn’t exactly prop a cardboard detailing his turbulent love life, blacklisted from bank loans, all drugged up in gang life—or whatever it is that roped him into this situation, you don’t know if it's socially acceptable to plop by his side, strike up a conversation, offer him some food, and then ditch him with the excuse of returning to your office ASAP _and_ conveniently leaving behind a bag. 

Scratch that.

That’s a good idea. 

All these years of being constantly overworked in NT definitely honed your brain to work faster into the intricacies of conceiving a plan under pressure. 

Before you overthink this strategy and ruin it with _over_ planning again, your feet automatically moved on their own accord. One step after another. Covering the meters separating you and him. Even if your heart’s doing a full-out marathon and chickening out. _‘What’s so bad about chatting him up anyway,’_ you try to tell yourself, _‘he doesn’t look like one of those sketchy, scary Alphas that just sniffed you upstreet like you’re his last breath.’_ This Alpha’s _different_. He smells clean, wonderfully clean even as you discreetly scented him in your approach. A mix of laundry detergent and old books in a warm cabin, nothing like dried sweat or crusting urine. His long, thick fingers aren’t grubby with dirt and fingernails are cleanly blunted at the tips. He’s certainly done well to keep up with his personal hygiene, since you know some of the less fortunate ones had to ration their money between food and a bar of soap. 

Dropping into a seat beside him while simultaneously maintaining the delicate edge of giving him some personal space, you clear your throat. “Hey.”

And he turns to you with the darkest blues in his eyes, like seconds before one drowns in the bottomless sea.

Your mouth dries up. _‘Oh wow.’_

Even more so when he rasps a throaty, “Yeah?”

Oh, wow _wow._ You might have forgotten to breathe a little. 

At his prolonged staring, punctuated with a boyish quirk to his brow that strangely suits a burly Alpha like him, you mentally shake yourself out of your stupor. Automatic PR smile is on, a little bit of teeth peeking from lips, and hands busy themselves with fishing out a caramel swirl bun in flimsy plastic. “Wanna do me a favour? I accidentally bought too much for myself and it’s probably going to go to waste if I don’t eat it up by today, so help me out?” you start it off with the fizzle of a firecracker about to die, all rapid words and never letting a moment’s hitch tangling up your thoughts. And when he replies with a tensing of his spine and a befuddled blink, you bite the inside of your mouth to try again. “I’m new around here and I didn’t exactly make any friend inside my office yet to become victims of my food spree so. Here you go.” 

And now it’s your turn to kick yourself right in the ass because he doesn’t need to know that. TMI. Really. TMI. _‘Ugh, whatever, what’s done is done, don’t sweat it.’_

The Alpha is, thankfully, oblivious to your internal war and drops his gaze from your face to the bread in your hand. Almost as if he’s sceptical of what he’s just heard, blue eyes dart to search your stricken smile again. And then it drops to your bread. Again. And again. And again, until the tension seems to evaporate out of him and his shoulders slouch by scant centimetres. That’s victory enough for you.

“You sure?” Guilty fingers are hovering over the packet, but apprehensive eyes are reading your reaction to his approach. “May I?”

 _This_ is the part where you oh-so connivingly rest a bag on the ledge just to make a show of how exhausted one can be from carrying bread. Still flashing him your standard edition of PR smile, you give a brisk nod. “Yep, dig in!” 

When those fingers finally pinched the packaging off your palm, slicing through plastic in a neat tear, and his jaw rocks to sample the first bite, you know your job here is done. 

Quite pointedly consulting your wristwatch like the busy Techie you are, you nod your approval at 1:42 on its face and leap to your feet. Time to execute the second half of your plan. One bag in your hand, no longer two. The Alpha’s chewing through a haphazardly bitten bun with his scruff flecked with crumbs, all the while eyeballing your frame. He doesn’t seem to notice your little ‘accident’ when you distract him with an apologetic smile. “Hey, sorry I can’t stick around, I gotta go.” To make a point, you shrug at your white lanyard. “Office duty calls. See you!” 

Through a mouthful of melting bread on his tongue as he hurriedly attempts to swallow it down, you make your escape.

You don’t let him stop you, even though you felt fingers grazing your blazer the moment you flit past him in a flurry of footsteps. 

That’s it, that’s the end of your good deed for the day, cue fanfares and confetti spilling in your trail as you exit stage left. 

Back to your dry office life of phone calls, fingers flashing on keyboard to tackle a hoard of media invites, migraines over proofreading press releases, and your eco-friendly deskmate, Loqi. Back to the distaste in Ravus’ eyes the moment you step into his office, back to your rented apartment with cardboard boxes still unpacked, hungrily scratching your tummy as you contemplate tonight’s dinner. 

But _hey,_ maybe this is just some wishful thinking on your part, optimistic for Insomnia and its mild weather that it’ll be kind to strays roaming the streets for leftovers, but you hope you abated that Alpha’s hunger—even if it’s just for one day.

* * *

“How intriguing.”

“…Specs. How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to see her recognising you as a homeless man.”

“C’mon, I don’t look _that_ bad.”

“…”

“Do I look _that_ bad?”

“Yes.”

“…shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This stuff’s been a rough draft when I first wrote LPC and asked about the readers’ heights. (+1 inspiration) Everyone’s cute and smol and I was like ??? hey why not write a fic about it because almost all my readers are short and cute and major adorbs??? but it was on and off as a draft and I never got around to finishing it until my friend’s passing in December. So I decided to continue it just to get out of my writing block because this is a happy fic everyone’s happy nobody’s angsting.
> 
> 2) “Then what’s that angst tag up there for?” “Oh you know. _Stuffs._ ”
> 
> 3) Team Niflheim needs more love. Aranea, Loqi, Ravus, Ardyn, hell yes. (+1 inspiration)
> 
> 4) Older Chocobros. Older Noctis. Y E S. (+10000 inspiration)
> 
>   **THE TRAGEDY CONTINUES:**  
>  _“We are going to the Citadel,” Ravus announces one fine morning when he summoned you into his office. “Mind your manners, we will be dealing with the royalty.”_
> 
> _Your automatic response at the R word? An exasperated groan. “Oh god. Royalty, just my favourite kind of people.”_
> 
> _Ravus raises a slim brow._
> 
> _You might or might not have forgotten that he, too, is royalty._


	2. EPISODE II: rich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tragedy continues in this episode. :3c Also I’m putting in the customary (y/n) as opposed to Lazy People’s Club’s styling since this fic needs your name in it. For those who don’t know, there is an extension that automatically converts all (y/n) tags into a name of your liking for your reading enjoyment! [You can grab it here and let it do its magic for all your name-replacing-and-reading needs.](http://interactivefics.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Okay so before we begin, a reader pointed out that it’d help knowing some terms, which is a good point! So here’s some brief explanation for the stuffs thing going on in here (source included):
>
>> _**Lèse-majesté:** The crime of violating majesty, an offence against the dignity of a reigning sovereign or against a state._
>> 
>> _[**Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR):**](https://www.businessnewsdaily.com/4679-corporate-social-responsibility.html) Today's consumers are looking for more than just high-quality products and services when they make a purchase. They're prioritizing corporate social responsibility (CSR), and holding corporations accountable for effecting social change with their business beliefs, practices and profits._
>> 
>> _A 2017 study by Cone Communications found that more than 60 percent of Americans hope businesses will drive social and environmental change in the absence of government regulation. 87 percent would purchase a product because a company supported an issue they care about. A whopping 76 percent will refuse to buy from a company if they learn it supports an issue contrary to their own beliefs._
>> 
>> __**Companies practice CSR through some of these involvements:**  
>  **Environmental efforts:** Businesses regardless of size have a large carbon footprint. Any steps they can take to reduce those footprints are considered both good for the company and society as a whole.  
>  **Philanthropy:** Businesses can also practice social responsibility by donating money, products or services to social causes. Larger companies tend to have a lot of resources that can benefit charities and local community programs.  
>  **Ethical labor practices:** By treating employees fairly and ethically, companies can also demonstrate their corporate social responsibility.  
>  **Volunteering:** Attending volunteer events says a lot about a company's sincerity. By doing good deeds without expecting anything in return, companies are able to express their concern for specific issues and support for certain organizations. 
> 
> So that’s it, hopefully that explanation helps along in this chapter! Enjoy!

Another day, another trial by fire in NT. 

“We are going to the Citadel,” Ravus announces one fine morning when he summoned you into his office. “Mind your manners, we will be dealing with royalty.”

Your automatic response at the R word? An exasperated groan. “Oh god. Royalty, just my favourite kind of people.” 

Ravus raises a slim brow. 

You might or might not have forgotten that he, too, is royalty. Uh. “My bad. Just had really bad experience with them. Well,” you hastily amend the longer Ravus stares, “that’s just how it was in Niflheim. Aranea hated dealing with Emperor Iedolas’ council and the rest of the nobilities when they have internal feud. Guy A doesn’t wanna sit beside Guy B because they terminated their friendship over golf, so we gotta find a way for Guy A to sit with Guy C, but Guy C is BFFs with Guy D and doesn’t want to sit with Guy A because Guy A’s Beta son is trying to marry his Alpha daughter so—“ you inhale deeply once the tragic tale reaches its climax, “—yeah, internal politics is a pain when we’re trying to do their seating.”

Even if your story is as cunning as Harry Potter, Ravus appears entirely unmoved at the appeal of it. Unfazed, his expression does not break, not even once. “This is an informal meeting, at most.” He unhooks his legs and circles his table, grabbing his blazer as you whirl around to follow his movement. “Be rest assured we won’t face any complications regarding seating arrangements,” he casts a lingering glance at you, “seeing how I’m not picky about it.”

_‘Because he’s royalty, right.’_ That’s how it goes. A part of you sends swift thanks to the Astrals because Ravus won’t have any issues seated together with the unknown at the Citadel—not that you know what sort of place it is, or what sort of crowd you’ll be facing at this ‘informal’ meeting. Scratching your cheek, you shrug at his insistent stare. “That’s cool, I guess.”

Your superior slips on his blazer and smoothens the front, eliciting a jangle of keys. With how the fabric frames his perfect Alpha physique in ways only a clothing can be illegal of, you can’t deny that you’re staring a bit _too_ hard. That explains why his gear consists of another undeniably bespoke suit with notched lapels in muted grey, oxfords and all. This Citadel place must really be something—that or Ravus affords dressing to the nines daily just because he’s the prince with maids to do his morning ironing. 

The Alpha only throws you a cursory glance when you’re fumbling to your feet, switching off the lights. “Pack your necessities and meet me at the front lobby in ten minutes. Be sharp.”

“Yessire.”

* * *

One final check of your reflection tells you you’re good to go. A hand flattens your hair to oppress flyaways, palms are skimming over your shirt, blazer and pencil skirt to free unsavoury wrinkles and knots, and you adjust your lanyard to put your tag on clear display. A quick inventory inside your handbag ensures you’ve got your tablet and smart phone all readied alongside a small diary for your daily jottings. Freshening up your overall appearance with another smudge of lipstick and a tug to your nondescript collar, you do a once-over before you nod, feasibly satisfied with your appearance. 

NT’s lobby is all clear-cut glass with sunlight slanting on white marble, silver steel architecture with dabs of greens in decorative pots scattered here and there. You’re lucky the lobby and the lounge are within close proximity; at least you could rest on these grand cabrioles prepared near the reception area while waiting for Ravus to arrive. Glass sliding doors slip open every now and then, permitting entry to fellow Techies and visitors alike. Your eyes catch on the way hulking Alphas swagger out of their rides at the pick-up drop-off zone, presumably here to conduct some business with a part of NT that you haven’t encountered. 

Staring at the crowd of Techies filing into a lift, you give a little sigh and turn your sight to the empty drop-off zone again. There’s a Bentley rolling up, a glossy grey with impressively tinted windows, giving you no leeway to make out the passenger within. Rich people and their fancy rides, that’s one way to look at it. You’re pretty sure selling your innards at the black market won’t pay off that car in one sitting. Trying to mind your own business, you almost drop your gaze to your hands if it weren’t for the fact that the window’s rolling down, revealing an Alpha in the driver’s seat. 

_‘Of course it has to be an Alpha because only Alphas can afford monsters like that,’_ you gripe, only to have your griping cut short because it’s not just _any_ Alpha—it’s Ravus. You don’t even need to look that hard to see him glaring straight at you from the window, thin lips pressed in displeasure. _‘Yep, time to go.’_

Like Ramuh singed your ass with a karmic bolt for dissing their godlike Alphas, you smother all your belongings into a death hug as you scrambled to the exit. You would’ve yanked the door open if this were a Toyota but _no_ , because it’s a Bentley and you don’t want to lose an arm in case your nails nick its paintjob, you dip your hand into the handle and carefully nudged it open. Sliding into the leather seat, you take a moment to marvel because _woah_ this is an expensive car and double _woah_ , you better not damage any part of its patterned dashboard, so you best sit still. The custom interior is a medley of tri-tone leather done in quilted diamonds, offering a sporty outlook contrasting its sleek build. Hard to believe you’re strapped in a ride costing more than your entire existence, but reality is a strange place when your superior is the _prince_. Better thank your lucky stars for this once-in-a-lifetime chance to lay your ass on posh leather. 

The moment Ravus ensures you’re properly belted in and begins to weave into the Insomnian traffic, you chance a glance at his stoic profile. “I didn’t know we could afford a Bentley as our company car. We only had Hyundai MPVs back in Gralea,” you muse, comparing the glaring differences between Niflheim Technologies Gralea (NTG) and Niflheim Technologies Insomnia (NTI). “NTI must be doing really great if you guys could buy this stuff.”

Long fingers flick the blinker as he effortlessly exits left. “Don’t be asinine. It’s mine.”

Considering he is the Prince of Tenebrae, it makes sense for him to own a fancy car befitting his status. You can’t really imagine him chugging along in NTG’s decaying Hyundai when it’s _so_ not him. “Uh, wow…nice ride, Ravus.” 

He doesn’t dignify your compliment with any sort of reply. Not that he has to, just that it’s awkward to sit in here without making any small talk. For starters, you don’t know if he’ll bite your hand if you ask for his permission to switch on the radio. (He doesn’t seem like a Billboard Top 20 guy anyway. Not even close to a Spotify playlist for the Classic Romantic either.) And you don’t know if he’ll appreciate it if you start swatching fingerprints all over the window because the expressway Ravus takes hangs between ornate skyscrapers that seem to disappear into the clouds, something dull Gralean architecture could learn from. 

As the engine hums in silence, your eyes gravitate to your peripheral vision again. “So, what’re we doing at the Citadel, boss?”

Ravus exhales, long and laborious, like he tires of your questions but he can’t exactly toss you out when he’s traveling at 110 mph and _not_ make it seem like premeditated murder. “There is much to be discussed regarding matters of C3, Caelum Conglomerate, and Niflheim Technologies, seeing how this CSR involves two continents,” he offers without as much as a blink of his eyes, still fixed on the road. “In hindsight, TAFFY is merely a front for repairing political ties between Niflheim and Lucis. Despite the war ending a decade ago, public sentiments are still in the negatives regarding Niflheim.” 

You scrunch your nose. If this is how he talks, he’s definitely the kind of guy who’d text in large chunks compared to you, since you’re the sort who’d machine-gun one sentence after another in an influx of spam. Talk about two opposite ends of the world. Shaking your head, you stare at a blurry Insomnia, fingers fiddling in your lap. 

Back when you first interned at NTG, CSR sounded like another episode of Crime Scene Investigation (CSI). It was Aranea who took you by the hand and taught you the mumbo-jumbo needed to excel at the job. By the time three months flew by and you had to wrap up your internship for reporting at National Niflheim University, Aranea herself rang you up and gauged your interest in continuing at NTG. Being a fresh grad with 0 Gil to your name in this shitty economy and receiving Aranea’s offer was enough for the Alpha to earn her status as your Guardian Angel in Leather™. Your reminiscing tugs at your lips in the form of a downtrodden smile, sighing. “Well…I guess it makes sense why NTI would have to handle all these stuffs since NTG is too far from Lucis to handle CSR like this. We only did small things like greener factories and charity with the homeless.”

“Indeed.” Ravus inclines his head, exiting into an interconnecting highway winding through stained glass delicately wrapping a tunnel. Its domed archway fractures colours in intervals all over your skin. “C3 recently rebranded from Lucis University to reflect itself as an institution that accepts not only Lucians now, but talented Niflheimians as well. This is why joint efforts between Niflheim and Lucis are integral to mend the wounds of the past.” 

You internally nod. He’s definitely the kind of guy who’d text a paragraph, that’s for sure. Though something’s still niggling the back of your head. “Is it okay that we’re not taking the team along though?”

Now, heterochromatic eyes have found a home on your face, if only for a brief moment. His brow is an elegant arch following his survey. “Meaning?”

“Well, you’re only taking me along—and I get that since I’m the senior and a freshie too,” you shrug, hands drawing abstract clouds in the air. “But back in NTG, Aranea’d usually grab Mr Biggs—ah, he’s our photographer guy,” you add when you catch a ghost of uncertainty appear on his face at the name, “and Mr Wedge to drive us around since he’s a pro at it. Are you sure we don’t need other people tagging along? Like… I dunno, Loqi? Or our team photographer, if we have any?”

“We don’t,” Ravus returns with a resolute answer. Large hands that are wrapped around the steering wheel look like they’d rather be wrapped around your neck. “Like I said, this is an informal meeting.”

Unfortunately, curiosity is a very nosy cat that reincarnated into an Omega. You squint at him. “How informal is informal?”

His grasp tightens. You think he’ll only need a hand to pin your wrists together. “(y/n)?”

“Yessire?” You perk up.

Ravus sweeps over your hopeful expression, grinding down on the gas pedal.“…you talk too much.” 

And so you wilt. “…sorry. I’ll shut up.”

* * *

Apparently, nobody told you that the Citadel is a modern codename for a gigantic building right in the heart of Insomnia. _‘Should’ve known that C in the Citadel stands for Castle.’_ Because it is indeed a castle, much like how fairy tales made a huge deal of kings and princes living in castles among the clouds, just that this is M.E. 766 and they don’t live in fortresses surrounded by rivers anymore, they’ve got Audis substituting prized chocobos too. You’re sure you look like one of those touristy figures here because it’s a little hard to tap into your professional façade when two titanic marble Messengers guard the doorway and your jaw won’t stop hanging at the sheer opulence this place is. Ravus seems mildly peeved when you’re busy being floored by the size of those pantheon columns decked in gold and black, red ropes cordoning restricted areas, and redder carpets running in multiple directions. 

Stepping into the foyer, you’re a little thankful for Ravus’ scent for making it easier for you to track him down. When you’re starstruck by the decadence of pearl-lined banisters leading up to a floor elsewhere, you just have to scent out for a muted musk of wildflowers and earthy herbs to find Ravus awaiting you somewhere, monitoring your incredulity with the faintest tug to his lips. You just have to return to him, walk a few more meters, get distracted by a lavish oil painting depicting The Story of the Six, before Ravus’ scent beckons you to be by his side again. Rinse and repeat, all the way past the readily welcoming Concierge Committee and into the fanciest lift ride you’ve ever been in your whole entire life, one Niflheim couldn’t compare to. An acrylic painting of The Story of the Stars edged in gold and ruby commands your attention, hung as a centrepiece in the lift for all its occupants to admire; it is a faint reminder that while Niflheim once saw Lucis as a puny kingdom unworthy of an Astral-bestowed prosperity, they certainly couldn’t stow Lucis’ rich history. 

Once it dings off, you follow Ravus from behind, carefully coming to a halt at a broad hallway accented by retro marbling. Standing before a double door situated between two vases of lilies are three figures of varying heights, like a stairway going down. From left to right, Ravus gestures at them as he bends to murmur into your ear. “Argentum. Aurum. Andronicus.”

“Ooh,” you nod in understanding, “like triple A batteries?”

The look Ravus gives you is one of silence as he straightens up. 

You take it that he can’t crack your joke. “Y’know, AAA batteries?” you try again. “Because Argentum, Aurum, and Andronicus?”

In retrospect, Ravus could’ve killed you with his bare hands if it weren’t for an animated blond waving madly in the distance. The cheerful joy in his voice echoes throughout the waiting room. “Hi there, Highness!” 

In today’s episode of I Shouldn’t Be Alive, you should be thanking your lucky stars yet again for that untimely rescue. Your superior wastes your joke by _not_ laughing and merely stands in attention when the three stooges stroll over—well, the tallest blond is doing a small jog, a buxom blonde saunters like this is the next episode of Gralea’s Next Top Model, while the smallest woman is drowning under her hefty robes, dragging it all over the carpet. When they finally crowd around Ravus, your superior nods in counter-clockwise. 

“Argentum. Aurum. Andronicus,” he repeats, his gaze lowering by fractions according to height. “We meet again.”

You take a moment to scan each face he mentioned.

Argentum, being the first guy introduced to you, is a wildly grinning blond sporting a sweeping updo resembling that of a chocobo’s… _butt._ It’s a cute butt, nonetheless. _Butt_ —and there’s your puntastic side making an appearance—if there’s any guy who should sport a chocobo’s butt on his hair, it’s definitely Argentum because he makes it into a work of art. You find yourself instantly drawn to his fetching smile that sets you at ease; his hair and eyes are the golden sun setting on Galdin waters, and you like how he radiates sunshine with every inch of his existence. In slacks and a simple shirt, he shoulders a canvas camera bag like it’s an indispensable extension of his limbs, keeping a caring hand on the buckled flap.

The second blonde, Aurum, is a busty beauty whose hefty breasts demand release behind the constraints of her button-up. You kind of sympathise the buttons a little; they’re doing a great job manning the fort from exploding. That and she’s hot, _smoking_ hot under her shirt and skirt combo sans jacket. She has the face of a country sweetheart who’s the pride and joy of a village, an Omega through and through. The high rise of her shirt couldn’t cover the rim of an Omegan collar in loud orange, not that you couldn’t scent it from her. She’s a potpourri of contradictions—like ripe tangerines and intoxicating gasoline, though you don’t know why. 

The last A goes by Andronicus and you are instantly magnetised by how she openly showcases her bare neck with nary a collar on it. _Unmarked_. Another Omega, but one who openly disregards the law. Those openly disregarding the law only do so because they know they are _above_ it. She is the image of crushed pomegranates seeping scarlet; only, you don’t know if it’s juices or blood—and that’s terrifying as all hells. While you are two parts intrigued by her courage and eight parts terrified at the whiff of metal in her scent, you avoid staring into her hollow eyes and returned her curiosity with your PR smile. 

Decorated in a garb fashioned from stiff leathers, two tiers of heavy brocades flare past her frame like the wings of a crow when she walks up. You try not to flinch when she quietly breathes in your scent, praying to the Astrals that she won’t surface as tonight’s nightmare. “Good day,” she intones, a flat sound bordering utter apathy. As a fellow emotionally constipated human, she levels her unwavering gaze at her second fellow emotionally constipated friend. “It’s nice seeing you again, Ravus.”

“Nice to see you again, big guy,” Argentum dares to wink, finger gunning his way. “We didn’t see your car when we arrived so we were betting when you’d come.”

“An’ from the looks of it, I won the bet,” Aurum pipes up in thick accent with a certain twang in her lilt. “Dinner’s on you, Prompto. Thanks for arrivin’ fourty-three secs later, y’all.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Argentum—Prompto is all shrugs, and that’s the happiest guy right there if you’ve ever seen one. “Dinner with Cindy tonight, here I come! Thanks for coming late, you guys!” 

Ravus, of course, seems to share a certain connection with Andronicus since he unanimously ignored the blond duo and says, “I see your butler has finally learnt to give you some freedom.”

“Oh my, I certainly never pegged you the type to be missing me badly. I’m flattered by your advances.”

You _almost_ jump out of your skin at the sharp tang of a knife on your tongue when another Alpha saunters into view. It’s a sentiment echoed by Prompto who openly leapt inches above the ground, clutching his camera bag for his dear life, while Cindy whips around to catch a mess of white flanking Andronicus’ side. From the looks of it, you could tell he’s the source of the metallic tinge to her scent—from spending an eternity with one another. He bends to gift her a kiss on her hairline while, undisturbed by the blatant display of affection, Andronicus merely scratches her cheek.

“Unfortunately not,” she monotones, shrugging. “He’s my shadow.”

Ravus only narrows his eyes at the albino Alpha who’s come to play with his ruddy eyes slanting catlike, all dressed up in his white three-piece suit. Yet your superior says no further on the matter when Prompto smacks said butler in the forearm with a livid, “ _Dude!_ Quit that! You tryna give me a heart attack!?”

“A heart attack is a symbol of love, seeing that it is a _heart_ attack,” he quips merrily, smiling a too-wide smile that never reached his eyes. “It’s nice seeing you again, Prompto, Miss Aurum, and,” he pauses, observing and quite openly scenting you, “Miss (y/n).”

You jaw would’ve dropped if you hadn’t locked it tight. _‘Holy shit, his eyesight’s crazy good if he could read my nametag this far.’_ If Ravus is the textbook staple of a terrifyingly tall Alpha, Butler Man™ definitely embodies the terrifying part to a tee. You clear your throat to shake yourself out of shock and stride forward to offer Prompto, Cindy, Andronicus, and Butler Man™ a handshake each. “Senior Corporate Communications Executive, (y/n) at your service. Thank you for having me here today.”

“Cindy Aurum, Caelum Conglomerate’s Media Relations Exec,” she receives your shake with two quick ones, her beatific smile gracing glittering green eyes. Caelum Conglomerate (CC) sure is blessed to have such stunner in their circle. “Nice to meetcha, fellow Omega.”

“And I’m Prompto Argentum,” Prompto comes up with a bold grin. “CC’s best photographer working with Cindy right here, and six-time champ of Meteor Publishing’s Photographer of the Year. Nice to meet you too.”

You don’t know what Meteor Publishing is, but it sure sounds impressive since he looks like he had certainly wielded a camera as a weapon at some point of his life. Plus, six-time champion? That’s some mad skills right there. For a Beta, that is. Or is he an Alpha? You can’t tell, not when you can’t pick up a distinct scent from him. He’s all fuzzy like he’s got one of those scent-blocking patches on him how one uses a mosquito patch to ward those pesky bloodsuckers. Still, you contain yourself from letting your curiosity pique, eyes darting away when he seeks yours.

Ravus has a hand on his chin when he talks to Cindy. “Teulle couldn’t make it?”

The blonde droops visibly and shakes her head, twisting curls bobbing about. “Holly’s at Lestallum again, doin’ a piece on the plant. Word has it that they’re generatin’ enough power for the whole kingdom soon enough. She’s doin’ field work to check ‘er out.”

Ravus dignifies her statement with an appropriate, “Ah.”

And strangely, Cindy didn’t take it to heart, granting him one of her smashing smiles. She probably got used to this guy who’d either text a whole paragraph or give one word replies to her story. Her smashing smile, on the other hand, held adverse effects to Prompto. Blinded, you’d say, because he’s as gone as one could be at death. It’s cute how this guy probably has a crush on his colleague the size of the meteor—but then again, considering how gorgeous Cindy is, obvious complications in terms of rivals would prove to be Prompto’s biggest obstacle. No matter though, you find yourself rooting for him internally. Office romance can be such a fickle fling if it’s not done the right way; of course, you’re only basing this on the serial horrors depicted in NTG involving a beta colleague caught flirting with another acquaintance when he’d been intimately involved with another beta next door, and that’s another tragedy altogether.

Unfortunately, the terrifying Butler Man™ takes centre stage once more when he gestures Andronicus’ way. This time, his introduction comes with a genuine smile—almost like a proud father introducing his daughter, funnily enough. “This is Lady Andronicus, Lucian Royal Council’s Military Strategist and Lucis University’s Pro-Chancellor.”

Interconnecting chains dangling from her shoulder ended in rings on each middle finger, emanating a chilling sound when her hand flicks to stop him. “…Byron?”

Butler Man™, whose name is apparently Byron, tilts his head with excessive cuteness in the gesture. It’s eerie how he imitated a teenage anime girl right down to the starry eyes with such perfection. “Yes, milady?”

“…It’s Crown City Campus now,” she sighs, shoulders sagging. “C3, Byron, C3.”

“My sincerest apologies, it must’ve slipped my mind again,” he offers his apology, but oddly, he doesn’t sound sorry at all—almost as if it was done on purpose. You find it rather disturbing how he’s smiling too much to be normal as he dramatically murmurs, “Being old is taking a toll on me, it’s my age that’s catching up.”

“Can it,” Prompto stuffs his face in his hand, groaning at Byron’s melodrama and countering it with his own brand of melodrama. “You’re not the only thirty-something around here, you know. Ugh, I seriously need to get a life.”

“I feel old too,” Andronicus offers her half-hearted sympathy—or is it full sympathy? You can’t tell, not when her face doesn’t reveal an inch of her thoughts. It’s as if her butler had sucked out all sense of expression from her and made them his. “I wish we all have a New Game+ setting when we restart. Can you imagine how cool we’d be if we all had New Game+ options?”

Prompto seemingly understands her mysterious lingo, even if your brain is doing an Error 404 at her reference. “I know right?” he rubs his bearded chin, imitating an ancient scholar. “Or at least they’d let us transfer save data, that would’ve been neat. At least I can be OP when I start again. Can’t forget infinite money, we need that. And we get to carry over our items from our previous playthrough too!”

The buxom blonde giggles at their chatter, greatly amused with the turn in conversation. “Now, now,” Cindy placates the whining children, her hand falling on the generous curve of her hips, “why don’t we _all_ sit down for some grub tonight? I’ll whip up somethin’ good to give that spirit some liftin’. Ain’t that be fun?”

One second ago, Prompto’s busy lamenting the unfair fate of the universe the Astrals gave him. Now he’s all but fist-pumping the air with a hoot, misery forgotten in the blink of an eye. “Aw yeah! Cindy’s home-cooked meals? Count me in!”

“Allow me to join the fray as the second chef,” Byron adds, gloved hands muting his sharp clap. “Let’s make it a date tonight on the 56th floor. Text me your list of ingredients, Miss Aurum, and I’ll buy them on my way out later.”

“S’well, thank you,” Cindy pokes him in the chest, her luscious curls bouncing when she tips her head aside. “I’ll pay ya back later with some good ol’ paw-paw styled hotpot.” 

You have to admit, this is probably culture shock speaking for you.

You’d say NTG’s media department was a family on its own unlike what Niflheim fostered; it’s Aranea’s brand of family with her playing a parental role over her children: Those working under her. Any outsider trying to talk smack with one of her family members would get a stiletto plugging their ass since her ferocious protectiveness ensured nobody’s getting bullied by other departments. When someone needs to get a job done, everyone bands together to accomplish the goal. Alphas, Betas, Omegas all on overtimes, working past midnight to sync everything together to perfection. Drunk at 3.00 a.m. on caffeine and high off the lack of sleep, you can’t say it’s the same outside NTG when your schooling life from primary to university didn’t really hold the same sense of camaraderie unlike what Aranea built from a scratch. 

Yet, back in Gralea, meetings like this often had a crushing connotation of no smiles, tight jaws, handshakes laced in meanings no matter how ‘informal’ they get. All official papers even if it’s a game of golf or two, high teas and candlelight dinner included. A contract dealt under the table with a fistful of cash, often the sort of transaction they’d prefer. Politicians are the upper crust of the society, never mingling with those beneath them. Getting into the high echelons of society is as easy as dialling up a distant uncle and his cables would net you the next duke faster than a flying dropship. Family, to them, is a glorified staircase whose only purpose is for one to step on in order to reach the next level life could offer. A life of jewels on throat, gems in hair, never the same Alexander McQueen autumn dress appearing twice in a season’s gala. 

It’s been ten years since the signing of the treaty, and Lucis outgrew Niflheim’s oppression real quick, it shows in how they’re living their lives to the fullest now. 

And Niflheim? Niflheim probably won’t change much, seeing how they’re dealing with things in tones different from their neighbour. 

Seeing how these Lucians have built their own ecosystem of sorts, political figures and commoners chatting like long-time friends, leaves a pang in your heart at the memory of Aranea, Mr Biggs and Mr Wedge as well as the rest of them back in NTG. Their ever-evolving dynamics with one another remind you that you’re here now and there’s little complaining you could do that could change your situation. Mom’s not here, dad’s not here, Aranea’s not here—and the best that you have is your superior, whose crabbiness renders him perpetually constipated for all eternity. He’s no Aranea, that’s for sure, and getting along with him is so damnably hard. 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t try again, right?

Scooting closer to Ravus, you give him little taps on the back of his hand. “Ravus, Ravus, Ravus,” you murmur, careful enough not to distract the quartet from their lively bantering. It is with a forced sigh that Ravus is obligated to acknowledge your pestering, leading him to lean downwards to catch your tiptoed whisper. “Are you sure I should be here?”

He angles his head to fit his mouth against the rim of your ear, hot breath laving your skin. While the tingling of your nerves almost made you lose your delicately tiptoed balance, you’re sure he doesn’t mean any of the contact, not when his voice hardens with the promise of a bite. A _warning_ bite. “And why shouldn’t you?”

“Well…I dunno,” you mutter, a tad bit chagrined at your insecurity. You’re not here to make friends, you’re here to make money—or at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself, except friends make it easier for you to fill in the loneliness. Ravus is not a friend, yet neither is he a foe. “Kinda feeling out of place, I guess. Out of the loop. System error. Disconnected.” 

For a moment, Ravus is silent. A long, contemplative silence. Not the one with the stink-eye he aims your way when you talk too much. 

“You are a fool,” he cuts straight to the point, clearly lacking hostility despite his wording. From the corner of your eye, you catch a half-lidded gaze meeting yours in unerring concentration, and it’s starting to bloom weird bubbles in your stomach. “Everyone has a duty to be here, including you. Set aside those feelings; they are hardly any use in this situation. You will learn under my tutelage, and you’d do well to learn it quickly.” You know the promise of pain when you hear one, though Ravus ignores how wide-eyed you’ve gone. His voice only takes a quieter tone as he says, “Regrettably, Teulle isn’t here to chauffer Aurum and Argentum today. I imagine you’d get along with her fairly well if she were. It is unfortunate that she’s currently preoccupied with other matters Andronicus undoubtedly assigned her. It isn’t a request one could simply reject.”

It’s definitely in bad taste to ogle someone, but you can’t help it when Ravus mentions her name. Never mind the fact that she’s equally terrifying like her butler, but you’ve never seen anyone opposing the law like they are the lawless. For all her de rigeur, you find it hard to believe an Omega like her actually managed to hold a seat in the council. Gods know Niflheim would sooner immolate itself than introduce an Omega into its ranks. “She has that much power? What’s she got to do with C3 besides being the Pro-Chancellor anyway?”

When Ravus starts with, “Double doctorate in her twenties,” you launch into a fit of coughs because _double_ doctorate? Who’s crazy enough to attempt that? In their _twenties?_ But your superior doesn’t give you a chance to breathe when he continues, “She forced Lucis into engaging in repeated peace talks with Niflheim and eventually oversaw the Niflheimian-Lucian treaty signing, leading to Lucis’ added benefits. Now that the war has ended, she aims to make Insomnian technology accessible throughout Lucis to develop the outerskirts with Niflheim’s help. Teulle is currently looking into that, seeing how new technology is presently implemented in the power plant in Lestallum, eventually speeding up the process to power the rest of the kingdom. You can consider it as CC’s CSR aside from joint efforts for TAFFY.”

You’re sure you’re still reeling from her double doctorates in twenties, while you’re just a fledgling senior exec trying to fly under Ravus’ guidance. _‘Why are all of them so badass? Even that Argentum guy is some six-time photography champ when I can’t even take selfies without my hand shaking and blurring up the whole damn picture.’_ At this point, you’re convinced the Lucian quartet over there are leagues above your level because you’re just some Omega from Gralea who’s trying to find your way in Insomnia.

If you thought Byron had sharp eyes, it is news to you that butlers these days come equipped with even sharper hearing. He brings his hands together in a single clap to draw attention, the plastic smile back on his face like it never left, always ready to educate the unsuspecting idiot: You. “Milady had been an esteemed graduate of Lucis University—“

Prompto playfully elbows him in the side. “Crown City Campus, big guy.”

“He’s doing it on purpose,” Andronicus sighs yet again, as if tortured by her butler’s existence. 

Prompto snaps his fingers. “I totally knew that.”

“—and having expressed her interest in giving back to an institution she dearly loved, she took up the post as Pro-Chancellor,” Byron goes on without missing a beat, clearly more than pleased to talk at length about his retainer. Though his smile is especially vindictive when he catches Ravus’ gaze. “Well, if I may be so bold in expressing myself, she is doing the Chancellor’s job as well, seeing how he’s d—.”

You are already holding your hand to your heart to steady yourself at the sound. _‘Dead?’_

“—disappeared,” Byron finishes. 

“…oh.” Well, that was anticlimactic. You don’t know if you’re sagging in relief or disappointment without the added tragedy. Then you do a double-take when you realise humans don’t do disappearing acts out of nowhere, especially _the_ Chancellor. Here’s to hoping you don’t step out of an imaginary line somewhere for your question. “Wait, what do you mean disappeared?”

It is at this point of your life, you realise two things are amiss with the situation once it’s brought to light. 

Exhibits A, Prompto Argentum and Cindy Aurum, are both displaying open signs of reluctance at the subject. It’s not like how TV shows do a dramatic zoom into the obvious body language; this is something subtler with how Prompto’s grin twitches in the corner and he _struggles_ with maintaining it. Cindy is smarter when she tries a shrug to diffuse the tension, but you know there’s too much light in her eyes. The light of _knowledge_. Which probably means she knows something about it but it’s going to take more than wheedling to make her spill the 411. 

Exhibit B, on the other hand, is Andronicus. She just takes out her phone from the intricate trappings of her raiment and appears to be texting someone. You don’t really know what to make of it because she’s confusing as heck. She could be pretending to text someone just to get out of answering this, or she really doesn’t care, _or_ she’s secretly peeved at said Chancellor seeing how she’s doing all the job instead so her phone is an elaborate distraction. Whatever it is, she’s not off the hook yet, not when you find her nonchalance guilty of suspicion too.

But what you failed to take into account is Exhibit C: Ravus Nox Fleuret. 

At the mention of the Chancellor, followed by Byron’s knowing glance, Ravus turns to you with the look of a man who has meditated under the waterfall for a millennia and thus, knows _everything_ the Astrals touched, including explicit government secrets. And he’s not afraid to share his tea with you.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum,” he starts, something of contempt crossing his smirk, arms crossed over his chest in the way only haughty princes could pull off. “The Crown Prince of Lucis is the Chancellor of Crown City Campus and soon-to-be 114th King of Lucis.” His smirk turns positively savage with his words. “A chancellor who excels in cowardice, if I must say.”

Now your hand is already flying to your heart again with a scandalised gasp. _‘Holy shit. This guy’s crazy for saying that right in the middle of the royal turf. What if they catch him and throw him in the dungeon for lèse-majesté like in Niflheim?’_ Then you catch yourself frowning at your thought. _‘Wait, we’re in Lucis.’_ Then you do another mental re-examination at your deepening frown. _‘Ravus is Prince of Tenebrae so I guess he has the license to shit-talk the Prince of Lucis anytime he wants?’_

That makes sense, right?

Right. 

As you’re about to sip on some hot royal tea served by none other than your superior, the double doors creak open to suspend the gossip session. An aging face peers from the gap, the face of a manservant of the Citadel who’s presumably in charge of the meeting. Everyone drops into a professional stance as the man folds at the waist in a deep bow. For such a frail body, his voice booms imposingly with his announcement.

“Everyone, thank you for waiting. His Majesty King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII awaits.”

* * *

Tiny Andronicus  
  
**Tiny Andronicus:** Ravus and Byron were dissing you again.  
  
**Noctis:** six  
  
**Noctis:** what’d they say?  
  
**Tiny Andronicus:** There was a newbie with Ravus today who didn’t know what was going on and asked questions. Byron and Ravus were more than happy to supply the answers. That’s the gist of it.  
  
**Noctis:** tell byron to mind his own business  
  
**Noctis:** i’ve got enough to handle on my own  
  
**Tiny Andronicus:** I know. I’ll keep covering for you since there’s not much to do anyway. Feel better soon. By the way, Byron and Cindy are going to throw a little get-together tonight at my place. Will you come?  
  
**Noctis:** sure  
  
**Noctis:** count iggy in too  
  
**Tiny Andronicus:** Great, see you tonight.  
  


* * *

Informal meeting, your ass.

While it was indeed an informal meeting with the king minus standard fanfare of all pomp and circumstance, a part of you secretly wondered if you could nail Ravus in the shin for giving you a minor heart attack. (You’re a short Omega anyway, close enough to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine if you needed to.) The Alpha hadn’t a modicum of common sense to inform you that you were going into a meeting with the King of Lucis, out of all people! Sure, you’ve been in meetings with Emperor Iedolas and his cronies but Aranea had ensured everyone in her team was well-informed of the proceedings and rehearsed major points nights before the main event took place. With Ravus? No, it was a trial by fire through and through. As a Techie, you’re a veteran in surviving spontaneous combustions whenever your superior attempts reckless shit—Gods know how many times Aranea bit off more than she could chew and had to overwork the team on double time, no weekends off. While Ravus certainly hasn’t introduced anything like that (yet), you’re just counting the days before he attempts—or hauls you by the collar and throws you into the burning pits of hell with him. 

But you digressed, really. 

A fruitful meeting is a fruitful meeting and you’re thankful you didn’t have to do much other than to upload major points of the discussion into your Moogle Drive for further reviewing. Your superior did most of the work in the meeting and all you had to do was just to stare at his majestic profile as he manhandled the ball into his court. Ravus is truly a capable man who understood the intricacies of a two-way communication between the nations—especially since he’s neither Niflheimian nor Lucian; he’s from Tenebrae and he has absolutely nothing to do with this. Or so you think, because gossip magazines wouldn’t dig deeper into his political ties when they’re all comparing math answers on his dick size. With everything laid out on the table, Ravus concluded the meeting with a handshake and indulged in private discussions with King Regis afterwards. Now that you’re thinking about it, Cindy, Prompto, and Andronicus—or the AAA Battery Trio—were all chummy with the king too. 

_‘Well, I don’t know if all kings are like that but it’s weird seeing a king that friendly,’_ you muse, seeing how Emperor Iedolas barely spared a glance at anyone unrelated to royalty or nobility. It was refreshing to have a king addressing the AAA Battery Trio like they were his children, a genuine interest in his voice when he touches on matters of their wellbeing and work. You stood quite some distance away to let them enjoy their privacy, though snatches of their conversations did drift your way.

Specifically, on the Prince of Lucis. 

On your way out of Sagefire, you readjust your paper bag securely to make way for your phone. On screen, Moogled pictures of a brooding prince in varying portraits and tabloids are out. Well, you had been Moogling the mysterious prince after the cryptic conversation took place because curiosity is a damnably nosy cat who doesn’t stop sniffing everything up. Besides, what kind of prince slash chancellor gets spirited away out of nowhere? Something doesn’t add up, especially when Byron and Ravus seem to hold a vendetta against said prince while the AAA Battery Trio are steadfast in their refusal to talk about the matter. It’s up to you to flip every stone and leave no treks unexamined—

—unless this is some Beauty and the Behemoth thing where the prince was cursed into a hairy behemoth walking on his hind legs, then _yeah,_ you could understand why he ‘disappeared’, but Moogle Results say otherwise. 

Pictures of the Crown Prince are pretty, for starters, no behemoth beast in sight. He’s a block of ice carved by Shiva’s own hands, a glacial beauty bearing cold eyes that betray nothing of his thoughts. With meticulously waxed hair gently spiked in layers, wispy bangs veiling his face, he’s a definitely a looker. (Though, some part of you had to confess that he seemed like an edgy teen who wears all black and listens to punk metal—but you abstained yourself from outwardly remarking so because. Lèse-majesté. Enough said.) What _really_ snagged your interest was the timestamp on each picture post. 

All of them were dated M.E. 756 and below. 

A frown tugs your brows and you tap on the next picture. And the next one. And the next one. Even with a badly photoshopped picture of the prince’s head pasted on a swimsuit model’s body, basking nude on some beach. _Everything_ was M.E. 756 backwards. 

You stop in your tracks, a little lost in thought. _‘How about that. Why aren’t there pics of this guy anymore? It’s 766 now, and I’m still broke like I was ten years ago, so where’d this guy go? Botched plastic surgery accident? Shiva knows.’_ Your dissatisfaction leads you to scroll through Moogle Pictures a wee bit harder than before, intent to prove yourself wrong, but damn you were too good until you couldn’t disprove your own conjecture. Working in NT really does things to your head. 

“Hey.”

A gruff greeting almost became the beginning of an accident involving your phone hitting the pavement but you managed to snatch it before your first month’s salary becomes the fodder for a new replacement. You snap upright to meet a seated man—Alpha—on a ledge, doing something with his hand. A wave. Right, a wave, an awkward wave. Wearing tired sweatpants that’s begging for an early retirement, in a shirt with more wrinkles than a grandma, kind eyes seek yours. You immediately recognise them for the way they drown you in the sea, blotting out all air from your lungs. 

_‘It’s the homeless Alpha from yesterday!’_

You would’ve cheerily bounced up to him if it weren’t for the fact that he’s got someone else in his company. Another Alpha. Scratch all thoughts of Sir Izunia and Ravus being flagpoles—this guy is the real deal. Titan must’ve had a hand in this guy’s creation because he’s all corded muscles under a fitting tee, bulging biceps fiercely inked in wings. His scent quashes you into a pulp under control, a potent perfume of a campsite fire in a mossy forest. You’ve met people like him before, Alphas whose overwhelming confidence easily sedated Betas and subdued Omegas alike. And you especially hate it when his dominance pulls an involuntary whine from your throat, rumbling under your collar. It’s a smaller cry of submission, curling backwards, trying to make yourself smaller, all Omegan instincts hardwired into your essence. 

Beer brown pupils are blown wide at the sound as nostrils flare to catch a whiff of your petrified scent. He holds out a hand, big enough to wrap one side of your ribcage to render you hopeless if he wants. “Easy, didn’t mean to scare ya, cutie,” he coaxes, a reassuring purr loitering around the edges of his words. Standing up, he easily dwarves the homeless Alpha like it’s no competition, ushering you in place. “C’mere, take my seat.”

When a broad hand settles between your shoulder blades with the gentleness unbecoming of an Alpha, guiding you to take his place, you bite out a soft, “Thank you,” as you sink gratefully into his experienced touch.

Titan Alpha chuckles, a low, husky sound that stirs an unpleasant feeling right in your belly with how it’s done. He steps back to give you some space, palms up in surrender, even if bright eyes tell you he enjoyed every last second of it. “Real sorry about that, cutie, didn’t mean anything by it,” he drawls, each syllable drawn out in meaning. When the homeless man pointedly clears his throat, he throws his hands up and walks off with nary a wave. “Don’t wanna interrupt anything so I’ll get going. See ya, Noct.”

You watch his retreating back until he disappears around the corner, withholding your sigh of relief. 

_Shitty_ omega instincts. Yep, you hate it when your dumb Omega ass resorts back to primitive instincts but that’s what it is. Whining, keening—all of that and more, especially when an Omega goes into heat. And _that’s_ when all hell breaks loose. Yours isn’t due for at least three more weeks, so that’s a relief at least. It’s not every day you get spooked out by Alphas like him since you pride yourself on holding your chin up high when faced with their species, but that guy was _something._ A good something or a bad something, at this point of your life, you don’t know and you’re very sure you don’t want to know anytime soon. Not when he has you ~~tamed~~ terrified from the start. Setting down your paper bag and stowing your phone, the homeless Alpha is the first one to greet you out of your stupor. 

“Forgive him, sometimes he can get – ah, a bit intense,” he begins, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. Straggly hair dangles over his face, almost obscuring a wistful half-smile from view. “But he’s not a bad guy, trust me.”

With a shake of your head, you answer his questioning look. “It’s okay, it wasn’t his fault.” As much as Titan Alpha’s existence spooked you with his overwhelming presence, you’re not about to let that ruin whatever you’ve shabbily established with this homeless man. You try on a smile instead, pushing all thoughts of Titan Alpha to the back of your head. “So, Noct huh? Nice to meet you.”

If this were a comedy, this is the part where a freeze frame comes in with a record scratch. For a moment, ‘Noct’ looks like he’s going to turn into one of those marble statues with how he froze. Did you accidentally cross the line somewhere with your thoughtless question? You really have a knack for putting a gun to someone’s throat, don’t you? But a second later, he seemingly thaws out of the odd little chin-rubbing action he’s doing, fingers playing together instead. “Y-yeah. My name’s—uh, Noctgar.”

Your head cocks aside. “Noctgar?” Something’s starting to click. Not that knock-knock joke from Noct, but something else. What was it again? Oh, right. “A namesake like Prince Noctis?”

If possible, Noctgar blanches like he’s been bleached. His knees are bouncing as he peers upwards, trying to look you in the eye right where he’s slouched. “Yeah…namesake. My parents were huge fans of the royal family.” He stops, a corner of his lips twitching at your bewilderment, and turns his gaze to the cracked pavement, an uncertain haze crossing his face. “I’m just some guy now.”

Oh shit.

If you had been holding a metaphorical gun to his throat just now, this was akin to shoving said metaphorical gun into his mouth. 

Try as you might, you can’t hide your grimace. _‘Way to go.’_ Your question must’ve stirred memories he’d rather bury—and there you went, fingers digging into his scars. Memories of, oh, you don’t know, maybe his parents for starters. Their passing, perhaps? Or a falling out that led them to throwing him out? Leading to him being ‘just some guy’ now? You don’t know all about it but what you do know is this: You need to fix it up in the way only an esteemed senior of NT could do. 

You imitate his posture, all slouches and elbows resting on knees. Mirroring his stance is a good way to let your body talk to him in ways a language can’t. You catch his unmasked surprise when you drop to his level. “Yeah, I get what you mean. Back in Gralea, we had people who were fanatics of Emperor Iedolas too,” you offer unblinkingly, letting him stare at you all he wants. “They started naming their kids Eyedolas, Solas, Nidolas, all sorts of stuffs just to get that Iedolas vibe in their names. It was a really weird trend, growing up with half the boys in my class having names ending in ‘olas’ all the time.”

Slack-jawed, the Alpha takes a moment to find his voice. “You…Niff?” Then he abruptly breaks the eye contact, chagrined at the slip of the slur, apologetically rubbing the back of his nape. “…sorry, I mean Niflheimian.” 

You get that, really. War may have ended ten years ago, but it’s like what Ravus said: Public sentiments are still in the negatives. Nobody’s expecting everything to go fine and dandy like the war never happened—even the cabbie from the airport called you a Niff, but the slur doesn’t really bug you that much when you understand it takes time to work these kinks out. You brush it aside in favour of chirping, “Yep, came from Gralea! Oh wait, I didn’t get to introduce my name, sorry I’m such a klutz,” you laugh softly, holding out your hand, “I’m (y/n), nice to meet you, Mr Noctgar.” 

“Just Noctgar is fine,” he replies, though he evidently falters when it comes to receiving your handshake. His hesitance makes you want to pull back in case he has an aversion to physical contact, but the moment you withdrew, he quickly darted to catch your retreating hand in a tight grip. You kind wanted to laugh a little at how he’s floundering for a social cue to tell him if it’s one shake or two, a hand over yours, or just keep on shaking until someone stops, so you allow him the novelty of five shakes as you bite on your bottom lip to stop yourself from smiling _too_ wide at how he’s ducking his head, messy bangs curtaining uncertain eyes. He’s the first one to soften out the shakes after the eighth try, clearing his throat and scratching his scruff instead. “What brought you to Insomnia?”

Fishing up your white lanyard for him to scrutinise, you point at the serif initials imprinted on your tag. “I work with Niflheim Technologies, see? They did a reshuffling recently and threw me all the way here from Niflheim. Some of my colleagues were super lucky bastards and they got Altissia.” You can’t help scowling at the thought of crystalline waters lapping on the edges of whitewashed banks, gondola rides and honeyed sunsets and romantic roses for every evening. “And then some ended up in Tenebrae too—including my best friend.”

You hadn’t intended to come off as bitter about it, but something must’ve showed either on your face or in your voice or _both._ Noctgar’s lips twitch at your admission and he tips backwards until he rests against the wall, to which you follow suit. Insomnia’s skies are a watery reflection in his eyes when he says, “…I’m sorry to hear that, I know how important friends can be.” Again, a doleful Alpha who’s thinking of distant thoughts your hands can’t reach. Your gaze lingers on the wrinkles rimming thick lashes as they flutter once, twice, before turning to you. “You must be lonely here.”

As expected, his introspection sees past your front. You knew it those eyes weren’t just looking when he _looks_ at you. You are machinery to him: He examines you, disassembles your parts for further comprehension, and puts you together again once he achieves understanding. You could only attempt a self-deprecating simper when you know you’re practically transparent to him now. “Kind of? I guess. I couldn’t even make friends with anyone yet, not even my superior. He’s the Prince of Tenebrae, that guy who’s the famous duo of the Nox Fleuret siblings.” 

Eyes are definitely the windows to one’s soul. But it seems like you have a long way to go if you wish to understand how his eyes are smiling when his lips are not. “Him, huh? Is it fun working under him?”

“Fun? Hardly.” You snort. “Talking to him feels like taking a walk through Ghorovas Rift! Because that guy never smiles.” You stop, if only to amend your statement lest it becomes a hyperbole aimed to diss your superior. “Well, I don’t know if it’s never, but it’s been two days and I haven’t seen his facial muscles move other than to scowl at me. I feel really unappreciated, y’know.”

It’s a good thing Noctgar doesn’t judge you for it. His smile is a comfort you’d feel if you have one of those feel-good foods, and it’s exactly what he does to you. “Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“He’s a bit scary and strict too,” you stifle your laughter, just because Noctgar’s pain in the ass statement is basically Ravus condensed into four words. “But I like that he’s willing to share his knowledge with me because as much as I’m a senior exec now, I still don’t know much about NTI and how it works. So he taught me stuffs—like this morning, he took me to the Citadel for NTI’s CSR.” You momentarily stop to take in how Noctgar seems genuinely interested in your story, then continuing to list off your fingers. “Over there, I met some really cool people like Miss Aurum who apparently runs a mechanic shop with her grandpa outside Insomnia,” you say as he nods along, “Mr Argentum who’s apparently a really great photographer until he’s the six-time champ of Meteor Publishing,” here, you pause when Noctgar chuckles to himself, “and the last one is Lady Andronicus. She was really badass like—who actually has double doctorates, stopped the war, and is currently rebuilding Lucis anyway, all while being an Omega? That’s major crazy, right?” Your statement makes him hum his agreement, letting you merrily jog along your little adventure today. “And then we met the king too! His Royal Majesty King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII. He’s this Alpha of all Alphas and you could totally tell when he talks because it gives me the shivers,” you add, just when you catch the quality of his expression giving way to something else, dropping on the edges. Was it because you were starting to turn into Paragraph Guy Ravus who talks without stopping? Abashed, you try to rein it in a little because nobody likes a chatterbox who talks all about herself. “Oops, sorry…sometimes I talk too much. Just stop me when I do.”

But Noctgar, you learn, is an all-around nice Alpha whose kind smile and thoughtful words give you little flutters in your nerves. “Not at all,” he shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “it’s fun hearing you talk like this.”

Before you realise it, you’re already fidgeting under his gaze, lips half-twisting in embarrassment. “…Thanks for listening to my rambling.” Because it is what it is, a genuine gratitude for someone whose presence feels like coming home after a hard day’s work. He’s a dear Alpha who doesn’t reek of pride and machismo, he’s just a simple man smelling of clean laundry and tattered pages of old books, sitting right here with you. You sincerely hope this isn’t your desperation in finding a friend talking for you, but you’re already thinking of spending tomorrow’s lunchtime together with him again. _And,_ speaking of lunchtime, there’s your paper bag from Sagefire. _Crap,_ as much as you’d love to spend two more hours talking to Noctgar, the bleak reality remains that Ravus awaits you in NT after lunch for more work. 

You swallow your reluctance, reaching for your lunch. Packets of buns and sweetmeats topple as you rummage its depths, showcasing everything you bought in your satanic gluttony. “C’mon, let’s eat something together. I accidentally bought too much again and this is kinda my lunch time so I gotta eat something before I get back to work.”

“No, really, you shouldn’t—“ Noctgar jerks back, waving off your offering at your offering of a tuna mayo rice ball. “Please, I’m fine—“

“No, seriously, please,” you insist, allocating two more packets of salted egg croissant and raspberry danish in case he wants variety. “Help me out with finishing my food?” Again, it’s an expired excuse from yesterday, but you’ve made sure to stick your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout just to net extra points in sympathy. “Please?”

So maybe a part of you should feel bad for roping him into it, but Noctgar’s laugh takes you by surprise. 

It’s a deep sound with undertones of a boyish delight that he never grew out of, nothing like the roaring laughter of some Alphas out there, or the sultry chuckles they attempt in their pursuit of potential mates. A hearty, full laughter like a crack of morning sunlight through a window, a sound that leaves you warm all over your skin. And it’s probably the balmy Insomnian heat getting to you, for the flush carpeting your cheeks is an infection reaching your ears. You’re turning your face away when he tips his head back, allowing you a clear view of hooded eyes trying to hold your scampering gaze. He reaches out to bring up a packet of rice ball, his indulgent smile turning lopsided. “Well…thank you for this. I appreciate it. In turn, allow me to be your friend.”

Wait, what? You’re the one who’s jerking back now, waving him off the same way he did before. “No, really, you don’t have to—“

“It’s not sympathy, I assure you,” he cuts you off, thick fingers already pinching the riceball’s flimsy packaging. Seaweed on white rice, it’s a simple meal, but he eyes it with bittersweet fondness. And that very same fondness is turned to you once more. “I’ll be your friend…if you want me to.”

Geez, the Insomnian sunlight really _is_ hot; it’s getting stifling under your collar. Your face burns with the full heat of it, letting out a quiet, “...Thanks, Mr Noctgar. Seriously, thanks.”

Noctgar is a messy eater, you realise. Having worn out the initial modesty of declining food, he scarfs down the rice ball in three bites, bits of rice sticking on his untrimmed beard. He must be hungrier than you thought, licking off salt from his fingertips once the deed is done. A sidelong glance has his lips quirking up in the corners, reaching out for the croissant. “I take that back. We can’t be friends.”

—well, that was short-lived. And here you thought Gralea’s political friendships were the shortest. Your forage into your milk bun comes to an indignant halt. “What—why!?”

“Not until you agree to stop calling me Mr Noctgar,” he chides with a twinkle in his mischievous eyes, leading you to realise how foolish your outburst had been. If your cheeks had been burning, right now you’re scalded by your stupidity—a stupidity that Noctgar enjoys, chuckling at your mortification. “Just Noctgar is fine, please. Let’s drop all formalities as friends.”

There are many things you learnt about your friend, Mr Noctgar, today. 

For starters, he’s named after the Prince of Lucis, some guy who ‘disappeared’ from public eye and the all-watchful internet. Talking about his parents is a huge no-no because it makes him sad and seeing him sad makes you feel like you just kicked a puppy. He’s also an Alpha who can’t read social cues and doesn’t know how many handshakes is good enough before it turns awkward. Despite his apparent awkwardness, he’s a great listener since he doesn’t even stop you when you rambled an entire paragraph like Ravus did. Thoughtful words belie a ferocious hunger though—he could chow down a rice ball like a vacuum cleaner inhaling dust. But when he smiles, it feels like the Astrals parted the heavens to make his face light up in ways you thought impossible.

You’re starting to like your new friend already. 

Absently swinging your legs, you peel off the sticky plastic and mumble your words around a mouthful of goodness.

“Geez, way to give me a heart attack…Noctgar.”

* * *

“That was a commendable portrayal of a homeless man, Noct.”

“Specs, I really wasn’t trying to.” 

“Truly?”

“Yeah, your rice balls were _really_ good. Can I get more?”

“…I can’t believe you. Come along then, off to Sagefire we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, there’s another part following the last conversation but this chapter is already getting close to 10k and I had to find some way to end it, so I had to bring it to the next chapter. Poor missing prince who’s getting bashed left and right thanks to Ravus ganging up on a certain poor, helpless Alpha ;(
> 
> On another note, this chapter contained an introduction to the characters of Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired, starring your reader character (y/n) Andronicus and Noctis. You can follow the strange journey of reader and Noctis as their slow-burn romance go down the Omen route right **[here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11510091/chapters/25828479)** But you don’t really have to understand or read LPC to enjoy this fic; it’s just me borrowing the characters to establish an ideal Insomnia and Lucis if they didn’t go all WAR WAR WAR with Niflheim because LPC is pre-Kingsglaive and pre-FFXV and pre-Omen, while this fic is post-FFXV in an alternate universe. **This fic only focuses entirely on your adventures with homeless (????) alpha Noctgar and the mysterious (????) disappearance of the Prince of Lucis so it’s 120% unrelated to LPC.** They’re also going to be playing a side role so no worries, your reader character in LPC isn’t going to outshine your reader character in Mr Noctgar :D (This is like a reader + reader crossover for some reasons) ~~And those who are currently reading LPC would probably get a kick out of this fic~~
> 
> **HMMMM. SOMEONE NEEDS TO UNCOVER THIS MYSTERY OF A MISSING PRINCE RIGHT AWAY THOUGH. ;D**
> 
> I had an interesting discussion on Tumblr sometime ago about the reader’s height in this fic. When I did my little survey with my readers before, I found out that they’re mostly around the 150 cm height circle. **If you're not short, don't worry, just enjoy the fic as it is because it's just a fun fic of office woes and misunderstandings!** Using that as a base for comparison (if you’re around that height too), you can see how you match up against Gladio and Ardyn:
>
>> [ **150 cm vs Gladio** ](http://www.mrinitialman.com/OddsEnds/Sizes/sizes.html?base_ft=0&base_in=198&comp_ft=0&comp_in=150)   
>  [ **150 cm vs Ardyn** ](http://www.mrinitialman.com/OddsEnds/Sizes/sizes.html?base_ft=0&base_in=188&comp_ft=0&comp_in=150)
> 
> You could also input your own height to see how you compare with the boys! ~~I mean, size kink and size difference tags are there for coughcough, winkwonk.~~
> 
> Thanks for the incredible support for this fic, all the kudos, comments, favourites and subscriptions! Checking up on the fic stats totally blew me away, you guys are amazing readers! ❤ Next chapter contains even more tragedy and drama and more of our favourite men ~~Noctis~~ Noctgar and Ravus! Stay tuned for more ❤
> 
> **THE TRAGEDY CONTINUES:**   
> _Fingers skating across the keys stop. Your innocent concern is a forgery most Omegas have mastered; a species designed to captivate and fascinate those around them, unhesitant to delve their fingers into the stickiest of pies, only to draw them back, licking and sucking off cherry-reddened digits one by one. Viciously coy to those they want to enrapture, cunningly demure to those they want to seduce, Omegas are disgusting creatures willingly spreading their legs for any and all Alphas to conquer. Once they’ve conquered the body, they will conquer the world. Such is the reality Ravus is acquainted with, considering the multitude of Omegas who have crossed his path and tried to make him theirs._


	3. EPISODE III: vendetta

“—which is why Ghorovas’ Rift is what it is today,” Noctgar ends his tale, flattening the top half of his vanilla soft serve with an agile tongue. At your wide-eyed stare, he swipes a few more licks to the cone, blunt fingernails absently scratching his scruff. “Told you Ifrit was an ass.”

“B-b-but that’s not what the Cosmogonies say?” you sputter, well aware that you sound like an utter imbecile for believing in half the garbage printed. Noctgar regards you with sympathetic understanding how a parent breaks to a child that Shiva Claus isn’t real, and you could only cover your burning cheeks by blaming the dastardly cunning ways of the Insomnian sun. “I mean—they should totally fire their writer for coming up with that fanfic-level stuff and—“

“I don’t get why they tried to make it romantic too,” Noctgar offers his thought, hacking off another solid chunk of vanilla with that sinful muscle of his. “Ifrit’s ego is the size of Ravatogh; unless he apologises to Shiva for messing up Solheim, I don’t think she’s going to lift the curse on Ghorovas. Of course,” his side-glance comes with a playful twinkle, “they tried to tone it down for the kids, I guess. No evil curses, just straight-up romance. Easier for them to digest that stuff.”

Serves you right for being such a gullible child, now Noctgar’s going to think you’re such a baby for believing in that load of junk. When you get back to Gralea, you’re putting up your limited edition copies on nBay. You’re _so_ selling them. Bitterly, _too_ bitterly, you mutter, “Should’ve known Shiva and Ifrit weren’t just Astrals immortalizing their love in Ghorovas. Ice and fire, _duh_ , polar opposites. And polar opposites just don’t get along with each other.”

“Really?” Noctgar bites out a stifled chuckle, now nibbling around the rim of his cone. “Why’d you say that?”

“My superior, Ravus, is what I’d call my polar opposite. The Ghorovas’ Rift to my Leide Desert, if I’m trying to be poetic,” you answer as your thoughts turn to the flaxen-haired prince charming fairing from Tenebrae, substituting black chocobo and polished armour for a Bentley too big in a six-digit suit daily. “He’s a Sonnet 18 kind of guy that could quote _‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’_ right down to _‘So long lives this, and this gives life to thee’_ , and then there’s me, rapping Monster’s _‘You could be the King but watch the Queen conquer.’_ ” You pause at the affable agreement from Noctgar, who’s taking it in with his cream-stained lips twisting into a smile. “See what I mean? We could totally work together but beyond that? Yeah, it’s the original version of Shiva and Ifrit right here, now that I stand corrected—”

The corners of Noctgar’s mouth twitch wider. “Your soft serve’s melting.”

—and you’re flailing at the way vanilla oozes down your flaccid cone, sticky fingers and a veiny trickle down the back of your hand. Any second later and it would’ve stained your cuff. “Oh sh—“ With no napkins left, you lapped at the mess in alternating waves of broad licks, the tip of your tongue erasing all whiteness. You transfer the soft serve to your free hand just so you could suck off all stickiness from your fingers, taking each digit into your mouth and releasing them with a salacious pop, glistening wet yet thankfully free from all stickiness. Thank Astrals for this good head on your shoulders. “There, saved.” 

When you turn to Noctgar once more, proudly showing him your handiwork, it is indeed news to you that Noctgar is also susceptible to the ways of the Insomnian sun, despite having lived here for a while.

* * *

5.48 p.m. comes as a heady perfume of melancholy and lovesickness. It has Ravus jabbing the keyboard a bit too hard when the scent draws closer and closer, like the metaphorical smog wafting in those inane morning cartoons Luna enjoyed. He knows what this is. _Clack, clack, clack_ goes his keyboard when _click click click_ ends at his doorway, bringing forth a scent that corrupts all Alphas into beasts, a scent that has his jaw set taut, teeth clenched. 

“Hey sir,” you chime, your handbag shouldered, eyes a starry concerto when you seek his. By the Gods, he hates that glassy sheen, especially the hint of your teeth hiding behind the pink of your lips. “I’m about to head back.”

 _So leave already,_ he wants to snarl.

 _Get out of my sight,_ he wants to growl.

“Very well, you may leave,” is what he says, ignoring your questing eyes in favour of the bulleted list he’s been typing since five. Seven pages in, charts and tables drawn, paragraphs elaborated and red-tabbed notes highlighting key points in the report, and yet it is still far from complete to him. From the looks of it, a few more hours will be a worthwhile investment in order to achieve the level of perfection he’s after. 

Something must’ve crossed his face when he returned to his work, for your keen eyes are still riveted on him. “You’re…not going home?”

Fingers skating across the keys stop. Your innocent concern is a forgery most Omegas have mastered; a species designed to captivate and fascinate those around them, unhesitant to delve their fingers into the stickiest of pies, only to draw them back, licking and sucking off cherry-reddened digits one by one. Viciously coy to those they want to enrapture, cunningly demure to those they want to seduce, Omegas are disgusting creatures willingly spreading their legs for any and all Alphas to conquer. Once they’ve conquered the body, they will conquer the world. Such is the reality Ravus is acquainted with, considering the multitude of Omegas who have crossed his path and tried to make him theirs. 

And you could be one of them. 

Another one of _them_ , seeking wealth and riches only a prince could satisfy. 

Ravus skips over your gaze, knowing he’ll find nothing. _Clack clack clack_ on his keyboard again, this time in a measured pace. “No.” By right, he could’ve left it at no and watch you leave his room with one of your feigned sympathy, but professionalism has a say over prejudice. Work is work, and you are but an Omega stationed under him. He keys in the last period and skims over the sentence twice more. “I am preparing an outline for tomorrow’s briefing, as we will be hosting a corporate event on C3 involving both CC and NT in the near future.” 

“ _Ohhhh_ …” You’re nodding—which, in Ravus’ dictionary, is not a good sign. The moment you’re adjusting your shoulder strap absently, Ravus regrets every word leaving your mouth: “Anything I can do to help out?”

This is what he doesn’t need. _Help._ An excuse following an excuse, Omegas are good at conjuring a thousand and one more excuses to spend more time within the proximity of those they’re trying to capture; How low will they stoop? Low enough until they crawl, Ravus supposes. And crawling is what Omegas do best.

His words are clipped, underlined with brutal intent. “No. Leave.”

Unfortunately, you are dafter than most. Where others would scurry along and never look back at the sight of his darkening expression, your stupidity takes you places others wouldn’t dream of venturing. Now, you are waltzing into the territories of Ravus’ restraint with a quiet, “Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, let me help you out.” Again, you are the obnoxious Omega pushing every button on the console as if to trigger his wrath, fond eyes juxtaposing narrowed ones. “The sooner we get this done, the faster you can go home, right? So let’s get to it.”

Foolish, selfish Omega. 

Fingers lacing together, Ravus leans into his backrest, tipping his chin ever so slightly at the sight of the disobedient Omega toeing his doorway. What do you seek to gain from testing his patience? His affection? _Hah,_ hardly. A one-night stand much like the cheap paperbacks Luna enjoyed? Never in his lifetime. Winning his attention? On the negative spectrum, you will. What about monetary expenses? Surely you’ll benefit from overtime, making the most of your meagre salary to support your luxurious lifestyle. Omegas and their petty needs of pretty collars for every outfit, polished nails done in salons, nauseating perfumes in crystal bottles—everything as an excuse to waste money. Ravus considers this train of thought twice more before he comes to a conclusion.

“You won’t be paid for your overtime,” he breathes his verdict.

It's a variable thrown into the mix for the sake of observing your reaction. If he’s right, he should be receiving the expected reaction right about—

You straighten up, nodding once. “Okay yep, bye.”

 _Click, click, click_ is the sound that follows, the very sound of victory proving his statement. Ravus smirks to himself, knowing he is not wrong and he will never be wrong. A typical Omega you are, lured by the lavish prospects of making more money through whatever means you could get. Laughable. Your desperation is disgusting and he detests your very presence. He should be very careful in deflecting any future advances from your end, knowing how adamant Omegas can be once they settle on a target to devour. You may have given up tonight, but you will return sooner or later. With that warning planted in his head, Ravus rests his fingers on his keyboard, gliding over them in ease. 

_Click, click, click_ is also the sound of defeat when you backtrack into his doorway again, flashing a cheeky grin that belongs only on primates in zoos. “Just kidding, sir, I’m not that heartless. Back in Gralea, Aranea used to stay back with the rest of the team when we worked on something. And because NTG was extra broke at one point because they keep siphoning the money to different politicians, I’m used to not getting paid by now.” You do a one-shoulder shrug, rattling about a paper bag. “As long as I can trade those OTs for credit leaves, I’m cool with that.”

Foolish, selfish, and annoying Omega. 

If Ravus were a slighter man, his door would have answered your statement in seconds. However, he is the Prince of Tenebrae, and so he returns your imprudent gallantry with a frown. More minutes are wasted on entertaining your stupidity, minutes that Ravus could have spent on bettering his outline, minutes that Ravus would have clocked in at least two more pages to his text. Here you stand, awaiting his response, and here he sits, awaiting your departure. 

No such luck.

Such trifling matters to be handled; yet it niggles his head all the same. He could only tear his eyes away from your unblinking stare, resuming his work once more. “…do whatever you want.” Yes, you could do whatever you want; after all, you may have won the fight, but you have yet to win the war. Ravus taps away at his keyboard, finding more satisfaction in punching in the alphabets than staring you down. “And while you’re at it, get me some coffee.”

“Great! I still have some bread from Sagefire this afternoon so we can totally share that.” You’re all but bouncing away as your voice drifts from a distance, filling in the _click click click_ of your heels. “Gonna be in the pantry for a sec, ‘scuse me.” 

He does _not_ want any bread from Sagefire, not when Scientia owns it. But your return brings two mugs of coffee, setting them with noiseless experience of a waiter on his table. In a creamy caramel colour, Ravus glowers at the consistency of your coffee. “What’s this?”

“Coffee!” you cheer, rolling out a chair to make yourself comfortable as you unpack the paper bag to reveal an assortment of diabetes inducing treats on a ceramic platter. “And here’s some bread too—I totally recommend having their strawberry danish because it’s _so_ good.”

With an upturned nose, Ravus angles his face away from your weak craft. “I only take mine black.”

Your head bobs rapidly like a storm-wrecked buoy, a certain light illuminating your face. “Well! More for me then!” The moment your offending hand begins its advance for his mug, he grits his teeth at your impudence and swats off the intruder. “Ow!” You rub the back of your reddening hand, pouting—Gods, the thing an Omega loves to do most, _pouting._ “Okay, okay, I get it, sheesh…I’ll make yours black next time.” 

Ravus only hikes a brow at your impertinent words and merely answers your sulk with a sip. 

It’s not black coffee, but at least you make a decent one for a screw-up.

* * *

2.39 a.m.

You could barely even control the yawn escaping your mouth, what more controlling your appearance in front of him. Two mugs, one rimmed in nude lip prints, both equally drained to the dregs. The back of your hand sports a smudge of brown and black, courtesy of an accidental rubbing of your eye to fight your sleep. Roughly thirty minutes earlier, you splashed cold water on your face, effectively erasing every last inch of powder on your haggard face. Only three days in and your superior is already treated to the sight of your bare face, no lipstick, no eyeliner, not even a cushion powder to fix up your appearance. That’s a record, considering how Aranea only saw your pillow face three months in when you first started; now Ravus has seen it all, and you think he’ll start seeing more the longer you work with him. 

How could one thing escalate to another, a briefing outline on tomorrow’s meeting turning into an impromptu planning session for NTI’s charity event on C3 grounds anyway? 

The answer? 

Well, that’s work for you. 

With another disgruntled yawn, you rub the bridge of your nose. Only, Ravus looks up from his copy of the document, pen paused. In his normal state, Ravus is considered crabby. Past midnight, stuck here for hours and hours on end with you, he’s the crabbiest _ever._ You could only manage an apologetic sigh, hoping you don’t add on to his irritation. “Sorry, Ravus…I’m just extra tired lately.”

“Aren’t we all?” is his acerbic response, utterly lacking sympathy. 

You don’t expect him to properly channel human emotions since he appears to be a counterpart of Andronicus, but he least he could do is to understand where you’re coming from. You click your pen close, setting it parallel to your lipstick-ridden mug. “Emphasise on the extra tired, sir.” Your lips twitch at his merciless dour. “I didn’t even get to unpack my stuffs yet. So many boxes and so many things are missing in my new apartment. Hooks, locks, curtains, sheets, pillows, _everything_. I can’t use the stove because I haven’t bought induction pans yet, I haven’t hanged my clothes in the closet because I don’t have time to iron everything, I need to call the landlord to call the plumber to fix the heater because it’s already broken by the time I moved in—Shiva, the best I have is the bed because it’s the only thing I managed to set up. Just throw on my scarf and bundle my sweater and boom, that’s my bedsheet and pillow.” 

Of course, you hadn’t intended to shoot him with your rant but it is what it is. While your problems are your own, and a prince wouldn’t necessarily come equipped with generous understanding of how hard moving from one place to another while being dead broke can be, your mild outburst is intended as a plea for him to remove his feet from his fancy, hard leather oxfords for once and slip on your ratty morning office slippers instead. If you had all the money in the world, hiring people to furbish your rented apartment would be as easy as waving your black card on the scanner, go to work in Louboutins while riding a Maserati, and come back to a five-star chef having prepared fresh fish air-flown from Altissia for your dinner. All of that is easily within Ravus’ command if he desires, but you? You’re just an Omega making a measly 3.8k a month and a good chunk of that money is going to your rent, meals, supporting your parents back in Gralea, and public transportation fees. 

However, for the strangest moment, Ravus is silent. 

When it comes to your sporadic verbal machine gun going _rat-tat-tat-tat_ for a conversation, Ravus keeps to himself most of the time—or downright ignores it. Granted, he could’ve unloaded a scathing bazooka of, “Silence, vermin,” on you, or a derisive variant of, “You asinine whelp,” on your sorry ass just to keep you silenced once more. But this time, there is none of that. Ravus leans into his seat, briskly capping his fountain pen closed. Heterochromatic eyes are back on you again, appraising your paltry worth under fluorescent tubes. Being probed by a man like him, wholly, unabashedly, with lips set in a thin line and eyebrows furrowed, everything just burns an uncomfortable bonfire in your tummy. 

_‘Oh gods, just stop staring already,’_ you internally shake your hands skywards, begging the Astrals on your knees to spare you because Ravus can’t seriously be doing this now. 

Your blouse is rumpled from all the active moving you’ve been doing throughout the day, you’re sure you’re shitfaced because your makeup is gone, nada, zilch—and the worst part is, he’s not even saying anything about it! Not even a degrading remark! Comparing your dishevelled self to him, his three-piece suit still remains impeccable even if it had been hours since his arrival at office, his face is a marble statue of cool composure an Alpha commands, and he does _not_ look haggard (unlike you, you weak ass Omega). The longer he stares, the more you feel your cheeks burning with the intensity of a wildfire scorching Leiden desert.

Heck, anyone and everyone getting picked to pieces by a hot guy would probably feel the same way too, just that said hot guy happens to be the punishing Prince of Tenebrae. 

And said Prince of Tenebrae so happens to be your superior. 

Three seconds later, the Alpha comes to a decision. “Let us stop here for now.”

That’s so unexpected until you blink at the surprise. Did that sympathetic node in his brain finally function? 

Apparently, Ravus isn’t finished with his train of thought. “I find that working when one is demotivated is akin to pushing a dead mule. Ineffective and inefficient.” And, for the slightest moment, the edges of his lips curl. “Like you.”

—so maybe you were too hasty in your conclusion. 

If it were up to your fighting spirit, you would’ve spat fire in his face, fuelled by your fatigue and fury from his relentless barrage of insults. But, Gods above, this guy’s your superior and you’re going to be stuck with him for a long, _long_ time. It’s only been three days, _three_ days! Biggs and Wedge once tested your patience with repeated pranking in office and you only snapped after finding your car painted in Post-its after the second month. Just because this goddamn Prince of Tenebrae doesn’t understand the hardships a broke ass Omega needs to endure in a new environment, it doesn’t mean he should be getting under your skin _this_ easily—and that doesn’t mean you should jeopardise your sole ~~work~~ source of income thanks to him. 

Because, hey, this isn’t a girly manga where the main character quarrels with a filthy hot, fucking rich dude and winds up in a twisted relationship with the man, yeah? 

Yeah, so let’s roll with that. 

You stomach his insults in hopes you’d digest his assholery and turn it into diarrhoea by tomorrow morning. At least you made some progress into _his_ work and you can’t say you shirked out your duty as a senior exec. The smile on your face is positively simpering. “Thanks, Ravus, I really appreciate it.” 

Translation: Go fuck yourself. 

Swiftly withdrawing all papers and clutter from his desk to be stuffed into a folder, taking off the mugs and dumping them in the sink for washing tomorrow morning, you return to his room to grab both your handbag and work bag, slinging them over your shoulder once more. In a couple more hours you’d be back in this dreaded place again, enduring yet another hellish torture from 8.00 a.m. to 7 p.m. and you can’t say you’re looking forward to it. A glance to your wristwatch tells you it’s 3.04 a.m. and you’ve got only four hours of sleep maximum if you’re looking to arrive at work on time, but the bigger problem here is this:

“What the fuck.” You blink at your wristwatch’s guiltless face. Then turned to Ravus’ cocked eyebrow at your uncharacteristic cuss. “Sorry about that. I missed the last train.”

If possible, Ravus’ eyebrow climbs higher. One day, you’ll ask him the secret to his condescending eyebrow ascension, but not today. Not when you’re stranded here with nary a cheap cab to haul your pathetic ass home. _‘Great job, (y/n), great job. You done fucked up now.’_

The curled edges to Ravus’ lips are still there when he questions, “And where do you live?”

“Somewhere on the – uh,” you squint at the foggy memory of sienna walls and bricked roads, vivid playground and a kindergarten nearby, “I think it’s called Kore? Not sure where that is.” Considering it’s only been four days since you landed in Insomnia, it’s a miracle your overworked brain could recall a fragment of the location. “But it’s got a kindergarten and some swings and it’s a pretty cheap and quiet neighbourhood kind of thing—safe, hopefully.”

“That’s quite some distance from here,” he hums. “I suppose you walk to the train daily then?”

Chatty, isn’t he? You shift your weight on the other foot, rubbing your nape as your head sifts through possibilities of Moogling up a 24-Hour cab service and risk getting conned for thousands of Credits, or grab Uber instead and risk getting into a car with a potentially frisky Alpha. The choices are clearly _endless._ “Well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. If I stay close to NTI, I’m gonna be even more broke than I am now. Need to make the best of my pay.” Not that it changes anything in your current situation; you probably should start thinking of alternatives now. Cab it is. “Yeah, anyway, I gotta go now. Gonna call a cab, ‘nite.”

Granite and amethyst are sharply narrowed your way once again, this time with an ever-familiar scowl. “Don’t be asinine—“

You sigh. _‘Yep, there it is, he’s gonna chew me out again for my life decisions. Stay out of my life, dad, I’m an adult.’_

“—I’ll send you home,” Ravus finishes, already striding past your stunned figure to switch off the lights to his office. “Come along now, we don’t have all day.” 

Your head whips around so fast you could’ve risked cracking your neck. 

Holy shit. Did you hear that right? 

Is your life really starting to turn into _that_ girly manga route where the cold bastard finally takes an interest in the protagonist and the protagonist falls helplessly in love with him and it culminates into— _‘Okay, no, calm down, self, calm down. It’s just Ravus being a sensible guy—he’s a human being and he’s got to have some sort of kind bone in him somewhere. Don’t overthink this and don’t end up making it more awkward than it already is. Ifrit and Shiva, Ifrit and Shiva, gotta remember that.’_

That’s your pep talk for the day, but your traitorous heart’s palpitating loud enough for your eardrums to beat along. Tugging your bags closer as you tailed Ravus on your way out, you crane your neck to look up at him in gratitude. Because, seriously, all girly manga clichés aside, he’s the real MVP for wanting to send you back home. “Thanks, Ravus, seriously. I really appreciate this.” And no, not a hint of sarcasm this time. For real. “Seriously _seriously._ Thanks man.”

Ravus allows himself a sidelong glance at your expectant gaze, almost haughty in his disdain. “If you were to be murdered, I will end up losing more manpower in this office. I simply cannot let that happen.” 

Or so he says, yet as your shoulders sag at his incriminating statement, half-lidded eyes are lingering far too long on you.

* * *

It is rare occasion for one to find oneself riding his car. It is rarer occasion for one to ride with him twice in a single lifetime. 

Strangely, you defy all norms with your brutish pig-headedness, barrelling past all barricades he’s strategically set up to deter those coming his way. Riding in his car _twice,_ and having the gall to fall asleep at that. Foolhardy, insolent, never quick to rise to the baits he dangled right under your nose. There should be a specific category for people like you, those who teeter along the fine line dividing the charlatan and the frank, though he can’t quite find a box befitting your nature. At most, you rebuffed his mockery with a snide smile, knowing your place underneath him, playing by the unspoken political hierarchy in the office. 

Chancing a glance at his side rewards him with a vexing view of your lolling head. Shoulders softly rising and falling in tune with your breathing, guiltless in your slumber. Never once stirring from your sleep, hands politely folded over your thighs, both bags sitting by your feet. Street lamps flashing over your skin hardly bothers you, though Ravus supposes sloths are heavy sleepers. While it is indeed a blessing that you are silent for once, it is also infuriating that you dared to sleep in his presence, rendering him akin to your personal driver. An incredibly incensing thought, one that almost makes him want to shake you awake just to see your disgruntled face upon being rudely woken up. 

The sooner he deposits you, the better.

A finger to the blinker, he smoothly swerves left and exits the highway. 

Stalagmite skyscrapers gradually disappear from the distance, consumed by the miles separating them from the heart of Insomnia as Ravus drives on. Kore, miles from the heart of Insomnia, is a suburb for the penniless. Unfortunately, it’s one of Luna’s favourite spots for her charity charades, or what Ravus thinks it is. Visiting orphanages with trolleys of toys and wheeling around gap-toothed children in wheelchairs, her actions earned the love of locals easily. A gentle beauty who is no stranger to TV shows and radio podcasts, his gentle sister preaches to the masses. What Ravus saw as cunningly crafted manipulation of the media to bolster Niflheim’s extensive efforts in positive politics, Luna would wage a war with words against him—or what she calls _pessimistic derision_. 

Whatever it may be, Ravus isn’t keen on correcting her altruism at the expense of their familial ties; as long as she’s safe, their views may continue to differ, so long as it contributes to the same cause. 

His foot eases off the gas pedal as the traffic lights transition from amber to red. The quiet outskirts of the city are obviously dead at this hour with no cars whirring across the road. Waiting for a full minute at the intersection when he’s all alone would’ve sounded ridiculous to many, but rules are _not_ meant to be broken. At the inopportune moment presenting itself, Ravus chances another glimpse at your visage, catching your head still lolling softly as though you are headbanging in your dreams. The sight of your unashamed barefaced slumber whisks an irritation he deems it can be solved once he swats you awake. 

Foolish, selfish, annoying, and audacious Omega. 

As though the traffic lights sensed his malicious intent, they immediately popped green. 

Thus, Ravus is thwarted for the night. 

Much later on, miles and miles away from the junction, stopping by the cracked sidewalk leading up to a rundown two-storey apartment with an exposed stairwell and walls as thin as a single brick, he watches as you stumble out of his ride with half a heel worn and the other stuck somewhere underneath the seat. You yawn open-mouthed when you’ve fished the abominable needle-heeled shoe from ruining his ride, slurring a sleepy _good night_ with that idiotic slant slacking your lips to reveal a hint of teeth in a coy smile. 

Shutting his door, you totter off into the distance as darkness warps your body until you are no more.

Ravus stares at nothing. 

And then he leaves.

* * *

8.35 a.m.

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_.

You’re speed-walking through the thronging crowd at four _oh shits_ per second, in which an interspersed _oh fuck_ gives you an extra boost when you glance at your wristwatch. You are so dead—oh, you wish you were already dead because at least you don’t have to step into office and get physically dismembered by your boss. While you would’ve preferred your phone to be pinging nonstop with a barrage of assaulting messages from Ravus, the eerie silence speaks volumes for your current situation. Nothing’s scarier when a boss says nothing about your tardiness—in which it’s already a code red for your life. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you chant to the crowded escalator as your heart goes _oh shit, oh shit, oh shit_ in tandem, pushing past the slow-motion bystanders—or are you actually on fast-forward? No matter, same difference, just that you need to get the hell out of the station to run to your office. 

Emerging from the subway, your heart’s pumping like you’re about to undergo a cardiac arrest as you reorientate yourself with your surroundings. In the distance, NTI gleams like a silver stake ready to be spiked through your body. Just imagining the things Ravus would do to you the moment you step past the office doors gets you doubting yourself for a second there longer—oh Astrals, would it be better if you just stop by a Starbucks somewhere and tender your resignation to HR via email just so you’d spare yourself? Or would it be better if you just hightail it back home and never show up until they just terminate you? Either way, anything sounds like a good choice—far better than going in there unarmed against your boss. 

With a nervous twitch, you withdraw your phone to check the notifications. 

_Nothing._

Not even an insult? 

Or even something vaguely derogatory?

Good gods, you’re really done for, aren’t you?

All because you decided to spend your OT in office with him until three in the morning. 

_‘If anything, he should be grateful to me because I helped him out,’_ you huffily try to justify should ragnarok come hurling home. Stuffing your phone once more, it is with a heavy heart and heavier feet that you drag yourself to your office, slowing down to one and a half _oh shit_ at a time. _‘But then again, it’s not like I was helping out much. He got his shit together while I was sitting there like a moron watching him work.’_

As a senior executive, whatever your boss tasked you with, you were supposed to execute it with the aid of fellow execs under you. Growing into this new role of yours gets challenging without a guiding hand showing you the ropes—you suppose all you could do is to imitate whatever Aranea had done and replicate it in your own unique way. Just like yesterday, when experience poured from the tip of Ravus’ fountain pen whilst he scribbled ideas on a scrap of paper. Planning charity events requires budgeting; that much you knew from your years with Aranea. NTG had to ration their budget expenditure spread over a financial year and NTI isn’t any different—except, NTI had a wealth of money at their expense, apparently. Ravus had kindly set aside close to a hundred thousand for media buys pertaining to social media ads, and that’s not even including billboards and traditional media. You had dumbly stared at the 1.5 million Credits parked under production costs as you mentally contrasted it with NTG’s measly 30k—to which the prince haughtily declared, “Did you think this will be just like Gralea?”

As snotty as he sounded, you couldn’t admit yes. 

The scale of the events NTI organized shouldn’t be a surprise to you; Ravus had shown you that whatever NTG did, NTI would execute it on a grander note. That’s because it’s not for Niflheim anymore; it’ll be the talk of the kingdom if NT scrimped out on their political campaign by delivering less than what is expected. None of them would like to lose face in front of the king, would they? From the guest lists to the caterers, he shared his thoughts and views on contracted vendors and agencies that would be setting up the event site. Coordinating their locations, standardizing the colours, ensuring all corporate identities are prominently displayed via buntings, it’s almost everything you’ve ever done in NTG amplified threefold. With every snip of his tongue lashing, you are forced to reorganize your bearings and fulfil his wishes according to his ideals.

It’s overwhelming. Exhausting. Demanding. 

Yet, as you think about your boss’ solemn profile as he worked tirelessly through the night, it pops a funny little bubble in your tummy. 

Ravus Nox Fleuret is a pain in the ass, sure, but at least he taught you something. 

And how are you supposed to support him as a senior exec if you’re going to get fired today? Well, better get your feet moving faster than one _oh shit_ at a time if you still want a job by tomorrow. 

Picking up your speed, you allow the ocean of humans to suck you into waves. Everywhere you looked, the morning zombies of Insomnia were in the same state: Dragging their feet to their workplaces. You can’t say you’re proud to be one of them, especially when your body’s in a state of disarray. That lack of sleep manifests by way of a throbbing headache and tunnel vision as you weave through the crowd, making your way to the stab of silver in the distance. Except, along the way, you didn’t expect a familiarly antique scent to come sidling up your strides. 

“Hey, morning,” Noctgar offers a rumbling greeting, scruff twitching along his words. 

What could possibly improve your disastrous morning to be better? None other than your favourite homeless Alpha, that’s who. 

In all honesty, you wanted to slow down and have a good chat with him before you head to your funeral—but it’s not easy being the star of your own beheading, so you can’t really show up late. Flashing him your most genuine smile, you keep an even pace. And it certainly helps when you’re short, for you would never wind up outpacing him. 

“G’morning, Noctgar! So sorry I can’t stop and chat, I actually shouldn’t be alive right now!” you chirp. At his stunned silence welcoming your shocking statement, you laugh a little. “Just kidding—well,” you sober up at the reality of the situation, “half kidding. I’m just _really_ late right now, so I’m trying to make the most of my last moments on Eos before my boss decides how he wants me done today. Grilled, charbroiled, steamed, everything on the menu is possible.” 

Even with the bustling Insomnians talking in dissonant murmurs, Noctgar’s low whistle couldn't be missed. “Sounds rough, I’m sorry to hear that, old friend. Take care.”

“Take care!?” you squeak your disbelief, chortling at the way Noctgar’s ever-expressive eyes twinkle with mischief when he knows you hadn’t missed out on the joke. “Such support, much wow. Wait ‘til you receive my e-invite for my funeral today, free lunch provided.” 

Noctgar chuckles at your dark humour, easily sidestepping a passing Beta before rejoining your side like velcro. “Yeah, wouldn’t miss out on free lunch. Hope he cooks you good.” 

“Me too,” you lightly punch him in the bicep as he returns his revenge by messing up your hair, trading blows. 

Somewhere down the street, Starbuck’s open doors wafted bitter notes of coffee among the herd of creamy Omegas, subtle Betas, and masculine Alphas. Cabbies and Ubers are honking at the building traffic, tyres screeching on asphalt. Just like this, it feels good to have someone with you. Walking together through the slow drift of chilly breeze, making jokes over your misfortune when the going gets tough.

Noctgar’s the same as ever, dressed in a humble jacket, hands pocketed in drab jeans. Still looking like he hadn’t a decent night’s sleep, always in need for a good shaver and mirror. Who knows what he’s doing out here anyway? Insomnia’s probably his turf, so it makes sense why he’d just pop up near the subway by accident if he had been napping nearby—and boy, it’s an excellent accident to happen first thing in the morning. Alas, all good things have to come to an end, marked by the way NTI’s glass lobby looms all too soon into view with lively Techies swarming in by the second. 

You instinctively slow down, turning to your Alpha friend with a grimace. “Well, we’ve come to the end of the line.”

“Any last words?” Noctgar teases, leaning back with his head tilted aside. 

It takes you a moment to search the Merriam-Webster Dictionary preinstalled in your brain when the image just assaults you like this. With creamy light spilling over pale skin, the wild arrangement of tousled hair, sharp Alpha characteristics of a defined jawline following a cocky, self-assured smirk; yeah, this homeless friend of yours is definitely _something,_ why didn’t you realize it earlier? With a little snip of his scruff, a tidying of his locks, and some fitting garment, Astrals, you could’ve transformed him into a model! Or at least you could do a joint venture where you could pitch his existence to modelling agencies as his self-appointed manager and rake in thousands by the end of the month—

—yeah, too bad you have to die today. 

“Eh, well,” you do an unenthused shrug, already accepting your inevitable death at the hands of your boss because no amount of active imagination could spare you from Ravus, “thanks for being a pal, Noctgar. You made my short stay in Insomnia a luxury vacation, really. Five stars on TripAdvisor as best tour guide.”

At this, Noctgar’s lips twist oddly—like absent fondness and Something More™, but who knows what Something More™ could mean when you obviously won’t live long enough to find out. “I’ll make sure they bury you with your phone so that you can still text me an invite in the coffin. Can’t miss out free lunch and five stars on TripAdvisor.” 

How morbidly charming. You really _like_ this guy. Holding out a fist, you flash him the kind of smile when Brave Legends Go Off To Meet Their Impending Demise. “See you on the other side, pal.” 

Noctgar only returns your brofist with unwavering confidence. “Yeah, see you.”

As you heroically march right up the entrance sans epic background music, too lost in the moment where the highlight reel of your life is on playback before your eyes, you’ve most certainly missed out a blurry reflection of Noctgar withdrawing a cellphone from his back pocket, snapping a picture of you.

* * *

“Ah, Your Highness, to what do I owe this pleasure of a phone call while I’m in the middle of a meeting with my board members, who are coincidentally very peeved at this ongoing interruption?”

“Sorry, not sorry. Do you wanna owe me something real quick?”

“An intriguing offer! Go on, I’m listening.”

“Great. There’s this girl, (y/n), coming up from NTI’s lobby now. She’s new, Omega, black collar, and reports to Ravus—I’ll send you her pic in a sec. Think you can see that bastard and make up some excuse on why she’s late?”

“Pray tell, what benefits will I reap from this ad hoc liaison?” 

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Debt is the slavery of the free, after all.”

“…fine, I’ll go to that damn charity event on C3.”

“What an _intriguing_ offer indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the hell it's been a year since I last updated. [If you're wondering what happened, here's the long and short of it.](http://beauvoyr.tumblr.com/post/182630611316/why-was-raon-missing-for-a-year-so-i-had-this) That aside, ~~did anyone notice Ravus got added to the list of love interests /squints~~
> 
> Again, thanks for all the support during my absence! Going through a bit of a rough patch in life at the moment, but I'll try my darnest best to keep writing and keep updating! ❤ Stay safe everyone, stay hydrated, and may 2019 go well for all of you!
> 
> **THE TRAGEDY CONTINUES:**   
>  _Great. Great, great, great, great great great, just great. The way you punched in the fullstop a bit too hard resounds like a bullet through metal before you rise to your feet, already feeling cold sweat collecting under your boobs. Because fuck sweating profusely through your armpits when that’s too mainstream, since the way you’ll get fired is already premium with how Ravus stands before his room like a headmaster catching his students sniffing glue in the school’s backyard. As if things can’t get any worse, everyone within vicinity are pretending they’re focused on their work—but you catch their sneaky eyes hovering above iMacs, ears subtly angled Ravus’ way. Absolutely fabulous, it’s barely your first week here and you’ve already fucked up ten ways up Ravus’ ass, and judging from how hairy things are getting, you suspect he hasn’t shaved his crack for a long, long time._
> 
> _(Or maybe he’s never shaved at all.)_
> 
> _(But you haven’t considered if he’s naturally hairless, did you?)_


End file.
